Abby sent the pitch from Mickey crashing into the left-field fence on one bounce. It hit with a loud WHAP! and careened a good ten feet to the right—a sure double if she were running it out in a real game.

Standing on the pitcher’s mound, Mickey gave a low, admiring whistle as he fished another softball from the duffel bag at his feet.

“You got good wood on that one,” he said. “Or maybe good composite’s the better term. At least with that bat.”

Abby winced and stepped out of the batter’s box.

“Good composite doesn’t sound right, star,” she said. “It’s like you’re complimenting me for developing a new fiber-reinforced polymer or something.”

“A new fiber-reinforced what?” Mickey asked.

“Sorry,” Abby said sheepishly. “My mom’s an industrial chemist.”

“Oh,” Mickey said with a grin. “Then I should have picked up on that. ’Cause I hang with industrial chemists all the time.”

Abby threw her head back and laughed, which Mickey found absolutely thrilling. He hadn’t seen her laugh that hard since that day he’d spotted her talking to Zoom at the snowball stand, when Zoom had probably told her a dumb joke or something.

Maybe, Mickey hoped now, that had been a pity laugh for the new kid. This laugh just now, this was the real deal—Abby’s entire face had lit up.

Score one for Michael J. Labriogla, he thought. The kid hits a three-pointer! From way beyond the arc, too!

For the better part of twenty minutes on this humid afternoon, Mickey had been windmilling pitch after pitch to Abby.

It was the result of another phone call to the Labriogla household—an hour earlier, in the middle of the afternoon—from one ELLIOTT, ABBY. Mickey had answered only to be greeted with another no-nonsense, right-to-the-point request:

“Come pitch batting practice for me. I’m in a hitting slump with my softball team. Please? Don’t let me down. You can help change a life, Mickey.”

How could he refuse an offer like that?

This time he was out the door and on his bike in approximately fifteen seconds, practically fishtailing down the road like they did in those car-chase scenes in the movies.

In the process, he’d almost run over an old man carrying groceries and a mom pushing a baby stroller, both of whom had looked terrified at the sight of this wild-eyed, red-haired, freckle-faced vision of death careening toward them on the sidewalk.

Now, with his shirt soaked with sweat from having thrown some forty pitches and jogging after countless batted balls all over the field, Mickey had arrived at two conclusions:

First, the girl could hit. Abby was barely five feet tall, with the slender arms and thin wrists of a ballerina. But she stepped forcefully into each pitch and had one of the smoothest swings Mickey had ever seen, the ball seeming to jump off her bat.

And second, his arm was starting to throb. Actually, it was way beyond throbbing—it was practically screaming in agony. Maybe it was because windmilling a softball didn’t come easily to him. And he wasn’t very good at it, either.

Actually, he had to admit, he just plain sucked at it.

Of the forty or so pitches he’d thrown, only about twenty had been anywhere near the strike zone. Luckily, Abby hadn’t rolled her eyes at this futility or directed any snide remarks his way, which Mickey would have done in a heartbeat if the roles had been reversed.

But whatever the secret was to snapping off a pitch underhand and getting it over the plate, he was completely clueless.

“Can we take a break now?” Mickey asked, rubbing his shoulder.

In the next instant he thought: Did that come out as too whiny? God, I hope not. Don’t want to seem like a wimp out here. If Gabe heard me just then, he’d be all over me about it for weeks.

“One more pitch,” Abby said.

She stepped out again and pointed her bat dramatically at the outfield fence.

“Really?” Mickey said, shaking his head. “You’re calling this shot, Babe Ruth–style?”

“Calling it,” Abby said, grinning.

She dug in again, holding the bat high and waving it in tiny, menacing circles. “Just give me something I can hit, star.”

Actually, it took four more pitches before he put one over the plate. Abby swung ferociously, but she got under the ball and hit a lazy pop-up that Mickey gloved easily on the first-base side of the mound.

“Oh, wait a minute,” he said innocently. “Were you calling a weak little infield flare? I’m sorry; I thought you were calling a home run. My bad.”

Abby tossed her bat in disgust. Then, to Mickey’s great relief—he wasn’t sure how she’d handle sarcasm at the moment—she managed a smile.

“You’re on a roll today with the jokes,” she said. “You really are.”

They got a drink at the water fountain and collapsed in the shade under a nearby oak tree.

“So how’s it going with your dad coaching your softball team?” Mickey asked.

“No problems at all,” Abby said, chuckling. “I told him: ‘As long as you let me bat cleanup and play any position I want and never take me out of the game, we’ll get along just fine.’”

Mickey laughed. “Maybe I’ll try that with my dad. Bet that would go over real well.”

“Seriously, my dad’s only coached two games,” Abby said. “And we won both of them, even though his daughter’s in the Grand Canyon of all batting slumps. But so far, it’s been fun having him running the team.”

Suddenly her face clouded over.

“I’m more worried about your team, star,” she said. “No Zoom on the mound the last game—what was that all about?”

Briefly, Mickey explained the reasons for Zoom’s benching, starting with his tardiness at games and general it’s-all-about-me attitude, and culminating with the infamous Z-slash strikeout celebration that had already become the talk of the league.

When he was through, Abby nodded and said, “Okay, that explains his texts.”

“Explains what?” Mickey said.

“Why Zoom has seemed so…different the last couple of days,” Abby said. “He’s been texting me a lot—again.”

Instantly, Mickey could feel his irritation flame on again. The guy’s killing me, he thought. Plus I gotta get a cell phone—real fast.

“How did he seem different?” he asked.

“Know how he’s always bragging about himself?” Abby said. “Talking about Elite Arms Camp, how no one can hit him, how he’s the greatest and all that stuff? This time there was none of that.”

Mickey nodded. “The boy’s been humbled. My dad kind of owned him up for being a jerk.”

“Well,” Abby said, “Zoom didn’t mention any of that. He just seemed, I don’t know…down. He even said he’s getting tired of baseball. He isn’t sure he wants to play it anymore.”

“He said that?”

“I told him that was crazy talk,” Abby said. “I told him with that arm and all that talent, he should love baseball more than any other kid on the planet.”

“What did he say to that?”

Abby shrugged. “He didn’t text me after that.” She wore a worried frown. “You guys really need him against the Indians, too.”

Mickey tried to envision Danny going up against the Indians’ strong lineup—steady, crafty Danny, but with a fastball that scared nobody. Even Sammy with his strong arm could be in for trouble, with no curve or changeup to keep the hitters off balance.

By the second or third inning, the Indians could be timing his pitches and raking.

Raking like it was batting practice.

Then Mickey caught himself. Dude, he thought, what’s with all the negativity again? All the gloom and doom? This was no time to get down and lose confidence.

What was the expression his mom used? “No time to go all wobbly”? Even without Zoom, the Orioles were a good, solid team. They’d do just fine against the Indians.

Maybe they’d even be better off without him. Happier and more cohesive, like when Sammy was pitching. As for Mickey himself, he wouldn’t exactly mind if the pitcher never graced Abby’s snowball stand again.

To break the mood, he picked up Abby’s bat and held the knob in front of him like it was a microphone.

In a theatrical broadcaster’s voice, he thundered, “So it all comes down to this, sports fans: one game, Orioles versus Indians, with a season on the line! And from what we’ve seen of these young, scrappy Orioles, they’re certainly up to the challenge, no matter who takes the mound for them!”

Abby laughed and wagged a finger at him.

“Hate to remind you of this, Mr. Announcer Guy,” she said, “but the Indians are a pretty good team.”

“So are the Orioles, young lady,” Mickey intoned, still in full sportscaster mode. “They’ve battled back from adversity all year long. And this Friday evening, in the cozy confines of Eddie Murray Field, the two teams will settle the question of who’s best once and for all. Tickets are going fast, folks. So don’t miss this epic matchup, brought to you by McDonald’s! ‘I’m Loving It!’ And by Toyota, ‘Let’s Go Places!’ And by—”

“Okay,” Abby interrupted, “now you’re starting to scare me. Anyone ever tell you you’re watching way too much sports on TV? Or way too many commercials, anyway.”

Now they were both chuckling. But Mickey had to admit he was feeling better about the Orioles’ chances if Zoom didn’t show up Friday.

He hoped this wasn’t the baseball equivalent of whistling past the graveyard.

If it was, the season could be over real soon.