One of the things Mickey loved most about game days was the ride to the field with his dad.

Usually it was just the two of them talking about the team they were about to face and going over strategy: what to do against the opposing pitcher, how to pitch to this kid and that kid, what to do if the other team got cute and decided to make it a track meet on the bases and test Mickey’s arm.

Mickey never felt closer to his dad than when they talked baseball in their ancient minivan, which was the size of an army tank and apparently just as indestructible. As they drove to Eddie Murray Field to play the Indians, the only thing spoiling the trip was an annoying tap-tap-tap coming from the floorboards.

Finally, his dad asked, “Okay, why so nervous?”

“Me?” Mickey said. “I’m not nervous.”

“You’re not nervous?”

“Nope,” Mickey said. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” his dad said. “Just that you’ve been tapping your feet nonstop since we left home. You don’t hear that? It’s so loud, at first I thought we had a flat tire.”

Mickey looked down. Sure enough, his sneakers were beating a staccato rhythm on the floor mats.

Somehow he willed his legs to stay still.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “Just…thinking about the game, I guess.”

His dad smiled and patted Mickey’s shoulder.

“Relax,” he said. “We’ll do just fine. No matter who pitches.”

Maybe, Mickey thought. But much of the earlier optimism he’d felt about the Orioles’ chances against the Indians was beginning to disappear.

For one thing, there was the inconvenient fact that the O’s had lost to the Indians in a 10–8 slugfest earlier in the season, even though Gabe had pitched a pretty good game. And thinking about the Indians’ hard-hitting lineup—a bunch of “big, hairy-knuckled guys,” as his dad had called them—Mickey remembered they were also patient at the plate, refusing to swing at bad pitches and content to draw walks if that’s what it took to get a rally going.

The memories of that game were making him anxious all over again.

Maybe a couple of the big, hairy-knuckled guys are sick tonight, Mickey thought. Or maybe they can’t get to the game ’cause their parents’ car broke down or something.

The thought of Tyler Hanson, the Indians’ feared cleanup hitter, standing forlornly on the side of the road with his mom next to their SUV, with the hood popped and smoke billowing from the engine, made him chuckle grimly.

As usual, Mickey and his dad were the first to arrive at the ballpark. As his dad went off to check on the condition of the field, Mickey carried the heavy equipment bag to the dugout. Even with the sun starting to go down, the temperature was still in the low nineties and the humidity was rain-forest thick.

“Hot sticky night, catcher’s delight,” an umpire working the plate had said to him once on a similar evening. And the two of them, sweltering in their face masks, chest protectors, and shin guards, had chuckled at the absurdity of that statement.

Mickey was about to heave the equipment bag onto the bench and go back to get the water bottles when a shadow loomed over his shoulder.

“Hey,” a voice said.

Mickey was so startled that he dropped the bag, which crashed to the cement floor, spilling baseballs and bats. He whipped around.

His jaw dropped.

It was Zoom.

“What?” Zoom said. “Don’t tell me I’m too early. An hour before game time, right? Isn’t that when we’re supposed to be here? Or did I screw this one up, too?”

Mickey tried to speak, but all he could do was nod. Just then his dad clambered down the steps.

“Mick,” he began, “I need the rake to smooth out that—”

When he spotted Zoom, he froze.

No one spoke for several seconds.

Then Zoom said quietly, “Can you give me another chance?”

Mickey could see it was a completely different Zoom standing before them now.

Gone were the over-the-top swagger and perpetual smirk the Orioles had come to know—and hate. Nor was there the hint of the sulky look he’d break out whenever things weren’t going exactly his way, or when people weren’t treating him like a young god.

No, this was a humbled kid with a pleading tone and sad-looking eyes.

His dad seemed to study Zoom for a moment.

“Okay,” he said finally. “You and Mick go loosen up. We’ll see what happens after that.”

A look of pure relief came over Zoom’s face. He grabbed his glove, clapped Mickey on the back, and yelled, “Yeah! Let’s do this!”

Ten minutes later, as the Orioles began trickling in, they seemed puzzled to see Zoom stretching down the third-base line.

“What’s he doing here so early?” Sammy asked. “Are all the clocks in his house broken?”

“Doesn’t he know this’ll ruin his image?” Hunter said. “Next thing you know he’ll start showing up on time for practice, too. And from there, who knows where it’ll end? He might start winning attendance awards in school.”

Mickey had to agree that it was weird seeing Zoom take batting practice and infield with the rest of the team half an hour later. Even weirder was how he was acting. Instead of standing off by himself as he usually did before a game, he was actually talking and laughing with the other Orioles.

When infield was over, Katelyn marched up to Mickey and jabbed a finger in his chest.

“I demand to know what you’ve done with Zoom, nerd,” she said. “And who’s this new kid occupying his body?”

Mickey glanced around furtively, then whispered, “It’s probably better for you not to know. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“I’m serious,” Katelyn said. “The boy is actually being friendly. And telling jokes. Jokes! And they’re funny, too! Here I thought the boy’s sense of humor had been removed at birth.”

Mickey grinned. “Maybe he was snatched by aliens. And they’re such an advanced civilization, they can perform personality transplants.”

“There’s something else that’s weird,” Katelyn continued. “Remember that old game ‘what’s wrong with this picture?’”

“Sure,” Mickey said. “One of my all-time favorites.”

“Well, look up in the stands,” Katelyn said. “Now tell me: what’s wrong with this picture?”

Mickey did as he was told. But all he saw was the usual assortment of tired-looking moms and dads, bored grandparents, and amped-up little kids pounding up and down the bleachers.

“I give up,” Mickey said. “What’s different?”

“See Zoom’s posse anywhere?” she said. “You know, the famous Dork Trio? Who’ve apparently attended every game of his since he was, like, three?”

Mickey looked again. Katelyn was right. He saw Zoom’s dad sitting in his usual spot, two rows from the top, all the way to the left, appearing to tinker with his smartphone. But there was no sign of the three solemn, moon-faced kids who composed Zoom’s entourage.

“Wow,” Mickey said. “Maybe he fired them. Like Jay-Z probably does with his boys three or four times a week.”

Fifteen minutes before game time, Mickey’s dad beckoned Mickey and Zoom to join him in the dugout.

He pulled a gleaming new baseball from its box and handed it to Zoom.

“Okay,” he said. “You’re pitching. It’s a big game. But you don’t worry about that. Just go out there and do your best. And you don’t have to strike everyone out. You’ve got some good fielders behind you. Don’t be afraid to use them.”

Zoom nodded and exhaled deeply, as if another weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Coach said. “Mickey’s going to call the pitches. I’ll let you guys go over the signs. But whatever he puts down, that’s what you throw. No exceptions. Understood?”

This is it, Mickey thought.

This is when the kid’s finally going to flip out. And revert to the spoiled-diva Zoom. The kid who wants everything his way and would rather drive a nail through his eyeball than have the catcher tell him what to throw.

Mickey braced for the whiny protest that was sure to come; the narrowed eyes, the pouty look.

But all Zoom did was murmur, “Got it, Coach.” Then to Mickey: “Let’s go warm up some more, okay?”

In the moments before the Orioles took the field, Mickey’s head was still spinning over Zoom’s incredible transformation. It really was as if the kid had been beamed aboard a spaceship and sent back to Earth as a completely different person.

But there were still a couple of key questions to be answered.

Could this new and improved version of Zoom pitch like the old Zoom?

Or would the kid with the new choirboy demeanor lose his fire and his fastball and get rocked by the bruisers in the other dugout?

“Guess we’re about to find out,” Mickey said to himself.

He plopped on the bench and began pulling on his chest protector.

There it was again: that tap-tap-tap sound.

He looked down at his feet.

This time he knew where it was coming from.