It was the next day and Mickey and his dad were cooking dinner on the back deck. His mom was away on a business trip. Mickey dropped a chunk of ground beef on the grill that landed with a thud. It sizzled and sent a thin plume of smoke billowing into the air.

His dad watched him for a moment, then asked, “What do you call that…thing?”

“What thing?” Mickey said.

He reached for the spatula and tried to flip the meat. But it was so big that it fell off, breaking into several pieces. Mickey fit the pink lumps together as best he could with his fingers and pushed the whole mess toward the flames.

“I’m talking about that thing you’re grilling,” his dad said.

“This?” Mickey said, patting the meat lovingly with the spatula. “It’s a burger.”

“No, that’s not a burger,” his dad said. “That’s like, I don’t know, four burgers. All mushed together into one big…blob. Is there a name for that? Look at it! It’s the size of a manhole cover, for God’s sake!”

Mickey nodded happily.

“I was going more for a bowling-ball look,” he said. “But, okay, ‘manhole cover’ works.”

He stabbed at the meat with the spatula again and this time managed to flip it.

“You’re what, twelve?” his dad said with a grin. “You’ll have the cholesterol level of a sixty-year-old if you eat that. So will I, come to think of it. And I’m only thirty-eight. Although I’d like to live to be thirty-nine, thank you.”

He gazed at the burger crackling on the fire and shook his head. “Your mother would freak out if she saw all that meat.”

Mickey draped an arm around his dad and looked around furtively. He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Thing is, Mom’s not here, Dad,” he said. “Which means she doesn’t have to know. It’s like I always say: ‘What happens at the grill stays at the grill.’”

The two of them laughed so hard that tears came to Mickey’s eyes, though the smoke from the grill could have contributed, too.

For as long as Mickey could remember, his dad had let him watch when he grilled on summer evenings. Finally, a year or so ago, Mickey had graduated to working over the hot flames himself, which basically consisted of firing up the biggest, fattest burgers anyone had ever seen.

He threw another ball of beef on the fire and sighed contentedly. The sun was going down and a cool breeze was rippling through the backyard, tinkling the wind chimes and rustling the flowers in the garden.

The two of them sat in silence for a moment. Then his dad took a sip of his iced tea and said, “I have a feeling you have a question or two about last night’s game.”

Oh, yeah, Mickey thought. Once again it was as if his dad had read his mind.

They had arrived home late after the big win over the Twins—and an obligatory stop at Abby’s snowball stand—and both of them had been too tired to review the game on the car ride home.

Mickey had gone to bed early, and by the time he climbed out of bed in the morning, his dad had already left for a weekend meeting at the insurance agency.

This was the first time the two of them had had a moment to talk about the crazy events of twenty-four hours earlier.

“Think I was too hard on Zoom?” his dad asked.

Mickey shrugged and thought for a moment.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said at last.

His dad grunted. “I don’t know. I kind of feel like I blew it with that kid. Gabe got hurt, and I saw all that talent in Zoom, and I just sort of…lost my mind. The first time I saw the kid pitch, I thought, ‘That arm is our ticket to winning the whole league.’ And I let myself be blinded by that desire.”

He took another sip of iced tea. “All of a sudden I was letting him do things I’d never let any other player do: show up late for games, call his own pitches, disrespect his teammates, dream up crazy plays to make himself look better.”

Mickey cocked an eyebrow. He’d never said a word to his dad about Zoom’s pickoff stunt—not even to Gabe. Someone else on the team must have ratted on Zoom. But who?

Mickey flipped the burgers and went back to listening with rapt attention.

“I just kept telling myself, ‘Oh, give him a break, he’s new, he’ll get with the program pretty soon,’” his dad continued. “Ha! It wasn’t fair to you and it wasn’t fair to the rest of the team. It wasn’t fair to Zoom, either. He’s just a kid! How can he learn to be a good teammate when his dumb coach is putting him on a pedestal and letting him do whatever he wants!”

His dad rubbed his eyes wearily.

“The more I let him get away with, the more he tested me, tested the boundaries. You guys all saw that, I’m sure. But for some stupid reason, I didn’t. Then finally, when he struck out that kid in the Rays game and tried to embarrass him with that Z-slash stuff, it was like the light came on for me.

“I was horrified! It was like I had created this monster! Or helped create him, anyway.”

The burgers were finally done. Mickey scooped them off the grill and onto a plate. He grabbed another platter with all the fixings, and he and his dad sat at a patio table.

“You go ahead and eat, buddy,” his dad said softly. “I don’t have much of an appetite all of a sudden.”

Mickey couldn’t remember ever seeing his dad beat himself up about a decision he’d made. On the other hand, his dad had never had to deal with this kind of head-case talent before.

“What happens with Zoom now?” Mickey asked.

“Well, if he comes back to the team with the same arrogance and disregard for his teammates, he won’t play,” his dad said. “If he comes back with a different attitude and realizes the team comes first, he’ll pitch for us again. It’s that simple. And it’s up to him.”

He drained the last of his iced tea and sighed.

“But, heck, he might not come back at all! He might decide I’m the worst coach in the world and the biggest jerk he ever played for. He might just say, ‘I am so-o-o done with the Orioles.’”

Mickey nodded as he reached for a roll. “He was pretty upset over being benched,” he said. “He had tears in his eyes when you put Sammy in.”

“Yeah, I saw that,” his dad said. “I felt bad for the kid. I really did. But he has to learn a lesson here. Guess we’ll find out next week when we play the Indians. If he shows up.…”

Now it was Mickey who was down, who felt things unraveling. The thought of not having Zoom on the mound against the Indians gave him a sinking feeling. Even if the Orioles somehow managed to win without Zoom, they’d get totally destroyed by the Huntington Yankees the following week.

Danny would get lit up like a refinery fire by that power-packed lineup. So, probably, would Sammy. Or anyone else they threw at those studs.

Okay, Mickey told himself, gotta get out of this negative mood. Can’t have both me and Dad down in the dumps. Maybe some food will help. Sure, that always does the trick.

Slowly and methodically, he began building his burger with all the ritual of a priest preparing Communion.

First he placed the burger exactly in the middle of the roll.

Next he placed a slice of cheese on top, making sure the four corners hung over the burger just so.

After that he added two slices of lettuce, followed by a slice of tomato and a slice of onion.

He was just beginning to add pickles, arranged in a concentric pattern with two on top, two on the bottom and one in the middle, when he sensed his dad staring at him.

Looking up, he saw a smile beginning to form on the corners of his dad’s mouth.

“What?” Mickey said, holding up the burger. “It’s a work of art. You can’t rush greatness.”

“Apparently not,” his dad said. “But by the time that work of art is ready to eat, it’ll be time for bed.”

It was good to see his dad’s gloom starting to lift. It made Mickey feel better, too.

As dusk settled in around them and he began chomping on his newest culinary creation, he was consumed with two questions:

Number one, would Zoom, the best pitcher he’d ever seen, ever play for the Orioles again?

And number two, did his dad want that other burger?

Or was that baby officially up for grabs?