Coach got to the bad news quickly, as he usually did.

“I’m afraid Gabe’s season is over,” he said. “His mom left a message on my cell earlier. He has a severe elbow strain. And his doctor said that if he doesn’t rest it, he could do permanent damage.”

The Orioles groaned and looked disconsolately at one another.

“That’s it, we’re doomed!” said Hunter, throwing up his hands. “All life is over. We’ll never win again. Oh, this is bad—real bad! We’re gonna go, like, oh-for-the-rest-of-the-season.”

“Thanks for that vote of confidence,” Danny said drily. “Much appreciated. Great for the ego. I’m feeling much better about myself.”

Katelyn glared at Hunter. Then she hauled off and punched him in the shoulder.

“Man up, nerd!” she barked. “We are not doomed. Any more whining out of you, and I’ll smack you somewhere on that puny little body that’ll hurt a whole lot more.”

The rest of the Orioles snickered. Hunter rubbed his shoulder and stared sullenly at Katelyn but said nothing.

“Are we done with all the drama?” Mickey’s dad said. “Can I continue? Okay, now for the good news. The league knows we desperately need another pitcher—no offense, Danny, we still need you, and you’ll still get a lot of work. But since Zach and his family just moved here, they’re letting us have him as an emergency fill-in.”

Coach’s grin got even wider. He rubbed his hands together gleefully.

“’Course, I don’t think the league knows how good he is,” he went on. “Some of you may have seen him throwing to me just now. I can say without fear of exaggeration that the boy’s got a live arm. A real live arm. Yep, I think we’re going to enjoy having Zach on this team. Right, Zach?”

“Call me Zoom,” the tall boy said.

The Orioles looked at each other.

“Zoom?” Katelyn said. “That’s not a name. That’s, like, a sound.”

“Yeah,” Sammy said. “Wasn’t there a commercial about a car that went zoom-zoom?”

Zoom shrugged. “I don’t watch much TV,” he said. “Too busy working on my game. I’m all about perfecting my craft, being the best pitcher I can be.”

As the rest of the Orioles made gagging sounds, Katelyn said, “Puh-leeze! Tell me you’re kidding with that answer.”

“Nope,” the kid went on. “Anyway, zoom is the sound my fastball makes. And it’s on you so fast, you only hear one zoom before it handcuffs you.”

“Oh…my…God!” Katelyn said, looking at the others. “He’s serious!”

Zoom stared at her. His expression remained blank as he spewed another stream of sunflower seeds into the air.

For several seconds, no one spoke.

“Well,” Mickey’s dad said finally, “I’ll leave you all to get acquainted. I have to call Gabe’s mom back, tell her how sorry we are and how much we’ll miss Gabe. But I’ll let her know we’re going to be okay for the time being.”

As soon as Coach was gone, the Orioles circled around the tall boy.

“So you’re like, what, the best kid pitcher ever?” Katelyn said. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“And you’re guaranteeing we’re going to win the league?” Sammy said. “You—Zach, Zoom, whatever your name is—you’re personally going to save our season? Is that it?”

Hunter bowed in front of Zoom and murmured, “We are not worthy, Lord Zoom, we are not worthy…”

Zoom held up his hands and the hint of a smile appeared for the first time.

“Okay, okay, have your fun,” he said. “But there’s something you should know. And this should make you feel pretty good about our chances the rest of the way. Ready? Okay. I just got back from the Elite Arms Camp.”

The Orioles looked at one another.

“The Elite Farms Camp?” Sammy said, nudging Corey. “How does learning how to milk a cow or feed chickens help you play baseball?”

As the rest of the Orioles cracked up, Zoom shook his head sadly, as if dealing with a particularly dim-witted group of individuals.

“Elite Arms,” he said. “It’s the premier instructional camp for youth pitchers on the East Coast. You gotta be an off-the-charts prospect to attend. It’s strictly by-invitation-only. Everybody’s heard of Elite Arms.”

“Everybody,” Corey said, nodding to the others.

“Absolutely everybody,” Sammy said.

“In China they’ve heard of it,” Corey said. “India, Africa, Australia. All over the world.”

“You know,” said Spencer Dalton, the left fielder, “I think I heard the president talking about the camp during a news conference the other day. In fact, Zoom, I think he did a shout-out to you! No, now that I think about it, I’m positive he did. ‘Major props to the kid who went to Elite Arms’—that’s exactly what he said!”

Zoom’s face turned red as the Orioles dissolved in laughter again. They were on a roll, teasing the new guy unmercifully, to the point where Mickey was starting to feel sorry for him.

Sure, the kid is coming across as a world-class dork, Mickey thought. But maybe he’s really shy and trying a little too hard to impress his new teammates. Or maybe he’s just talking trash because that’s what kids on his previous team did and he thinks it’s expected here, too.

At the same time, Mickey felt horrible for Gabe. Season over? He couldn’t imagine it. Gabe was like him—he lived and breathed baseball all year long. What he could imagine—all too clearly—was Gabe sitting in the doctor’s office, trying to hold back the tears as he heard the news.

Mickey shuddered. What a blow to the poor guy.

Plus the Orioles were losing more than just an awesome pitcher. Gabe was a great teammate, too, the kind of kid who was always encouraging everyone no matter what the score was or how well he himself was doing.

In fact, in the three years they’d played together, not once had Mickey ever heard Gabe talk about his own stats. All he seemed to care about was the Orioles winning.

Oh, yeah, Mickey thought, this new kid—Zoom, Zach, whatever—has big spikes to fill.

As practice went on, though, it was obvious that not only did Zoom Winslow look All-World on the mound, he was a pretty complete player. He showed good range running down fly balls in the outfield. And when it was his turn to hit, he sprayed line drives to all fields and showed decent power.

“The boy can play a little,” Sammy admitted grudgingly, watching Zoom leg out a double on his last at-bat.

“Yeah,” Hunter said, “but it’s only practice. Let’s see what happens in a real live game. Hope I don’t have to start bowing to him again, though. That would majorly suck.”

At the end of practice, Coach spoke briefly to the Orioles about their upcoming game against the Blue Jays and what time to be at the field. Mickey noticed that Zoom kept his head down the whole time, drawing big Zs in the dirt with the handle of his bat and barely paying attention.

When Coach dismissed them, Zoom tossed his bat in his gear bag and headed wordlessly for the parking lot. After a moment, Mickey followed him.

“Hey,” he called out, “I’m Mickey, the catcher for this homely-looking crew. Don’t mind them—they’re just getting to know you. You looked pretty good out there. Should be fun working with you.”

Zoom stopped and studied Mickey.

“Working with me?” he said.

“Yeah, you know,” Mickey said. “Going over the signs, figuring out what pitches to throw, how you like to pitch to different batters…”

Just then a black SUV pulled up. A kind-looking man with glasses and thinning hair was behind the wheel. He rolled down the window and waved at the two boys.

“Hold on a minute, Dad!” Zoom barked. “Jeez!”

He turned back to Mickey and his eyes narrowed.

“Look, big man,” he said, “here’s how we’re going to work together: I pitch; you catch and stay out of the way. End of story.”

With that, he opened the door and climbed into the front passenger seat. The driver smiled at Mickey and waved again as the car rolled away.

Ohhh-kay, Mickey thought as he watched the car disappear. This should be interesting. Very, very interesting.