The practice before the Yankees game was the best one of the season, in Mickey’s opinion. Everywhere you looked, the Orioles were smiling as they went about their work. Even his dad seemed to be having a great time as he put them through drills and talked strategy.

They were having so much fun that, during breaks, no one wanted to leave the field, even to get a drink of water. Instead, they gathered together to hold goofy competitions, like who could make the best behind-the-back catch of a fly ball and who could run the bases backward the fastest.

“Watch this!” Sammy yelled at one point. He stood ten feet from the outfield fence and nodded at Ethan. “Let it fly, E.”

Ethan wound up and threw a soft, arcing pop-up that seemed headed for the scoreboard beyond center field.

But Sammy raced back, hurdled the fence, and made a jaw-dropping backhand catch in midair before crashing to the ground on the other side. He rolled over twice and shot his glove into the air so everyone could see the ball peeking out from the webbing.

“And the judges give that a score of—oh, my, I can’t believe it!—nine-point-nine-eight!” Gabe gushed in the awestruck tones of an Olympics announcer. “That was an incredible catch! But apparently there was a slight deduction on style points. These judges are tough today, folks, I’ll tell you that!”

“Yeah, and they’re also blind!” Sammy bellowed in mock outrage, brushing the dirt from his jersey. “That was a ten all the way! Are you kidding? That had SportsCenter highlight written all over it!”

Zoom hummed the famous SportsCenter jingle. “Da, da, da, DA, DA, DA!”

“In fact, I just changed my mind!” Sammy went on. “Forget SportsCenter. It was one of the finest catches in baseball history!”

As the rest of the Orioles cracked up, Katelyn put her hands on her hips and said, “You do realize, nerd, that the game’s been around for, like, one hundred and fifty years? So you’re saying that was one of the top catches in all that time?”

“Absolutely,” Sammy said. “The sheer athleticism, the pinpoint timing, the poetry of the leap…”

“‘The poetry of the leap’?” Hunter said. “Seriously, dude? ‘Poetry’?”

Which only sent Sammy on another sputtering rant about how genuine baseball talent was undervalued these days and had been for years—well, at least since he was ten years old.

Mickey was loving every minute of it.

The Orioles were totally focused—this was the sharpest they’d looked in infield and outfield practice in a long time. And yet they were totally loose, too, which was so important going into a big game like this.

The way Mickey saw it, all the pressure was on the Yankees. They were the hotshot team with the monster rep and the rich legacy, expected to steamroll the poor little outgunned Orioles.

If the Orioles somehow found a way to win, it would be the biggest upset in local youth baseball in years.

They’d have to throw a parade for us, Mickey thought. On the other hand, Huntington would be plunged into mourning. The town hall would be decorated with black bunting and folks would be wailing in the streets. Meanwhile the Yankees themselves would be so devastated and ashamed by the loss they’d probably wear paper bags over their heads for months.

The Orioles were just as energized during batting practice as they had been in the drills.

According to Zoom, Kevin Milo was likely to be the Yankees starter. He was a big, hard-throwing right hander, so Coach humped up on his BP fastball to get the Orioles used to the pitching speed they’d be seeing Friday night.

Hunter was the first batter. A few of the Orioles, Mickey included, whistled admiringly as they watched Coach’s first pitches to the little third baseman.

Hunter himself stepped out and said, “Dang, you still got it, Coach! If that Kevin Milo kid throws as hard, I just hope he has good control!”

“Don’t be nervous, Hunter,” Gabe called. “Even if the kid’s a little wild, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“How about Hunter gets beaned and starts flopping on the ground like a fish?” Katelyn offered helpfully.

“Or he takes a fastball in the ribs and can’t breathe or bend over for a couple of days?” Sammy said.

“Or Milo drills him in the leg and he’s wearing a cast and on crutches for the rest of the summer?” Corey added.

Hunter turned pale and stepped out again.

“Uh, guys, maybe we could do without all the graphic scenarios,” Coach said. “Do we really think that’s helpful?”

“Okay, maybe not,” Katelyn said, giggling. “Hey, Hunter, just ignore everything we said.”

Even with Coach throwing hard, most of the Orioles were getting around on his pitches and driving the ball. Mickey was one of the last to hit. When he finally stepped in, his dad threw him a fastball that crashed into the back-stop and seemed to be the hardest pitch of the afternoon.

“Shouldn’t you be getting tired?” Mickey yelled playfully. “A seventy-year-old man still throwing that hard? Your arm’s gonna fall off!”

His dad grunted. “Don’t worry about me, kid. Just worry about getting that bat going early when you face Milo Friday night.”

Toward the end of practice, Mickey’s dad called the team together. The Orioles sprawled in the grass along the third-base line. They were tired but exhilarated by how sharp they had looked and how much fun they’d just had.

“All right,” Coach said, “to close things out today, we have a special guest speaker. And this speaker is—drum roll, please!—Zoom.

“He’s already given us a pretty good scouting report on the Yankees—at least on the kids he played with last season who are still on this year’s team. But he brought up a few other interesting points, which I’ve asked him to pass along to you guys. Zoom?”

Zoom stood and nervously surveyed his teammates.

“Um, what I told Coach is that playing the Yankees will be totally different from any other team you’ve ever played,” he began. “And the main thing we all have to do is remain calm. Which isn’t easy when you play those guys. Especially down there.

“Carter Field is like a miniversion of, like, a college stadium. And the Yankees have a lot of fans. And they’re loud. The whole atmosphere is intimidating. I’ve seen visiting teams come in there and turn white when they see the packed stands and hear the crowd roar for the first time.

“Another thing to watch out for,” Zoom continued, “is Moose Mayhew.”

This set off a chorus of boos.

“You mean Marvin?” Katelyn said.

Zoom grinned. He appeared to be settling down now.

“He’s an okay defensive catcher,” continued Zoom. “Although, in my opinion, Mickey’s much better all-around. With a way better arm.”

Mickey shot to his feet and bowed deeply as the Orioles chuckled.

“Mickey’s way nicer, too,” Zoom said, grinning.

“Awww!” went the rest of the Orioles.

“You two wanna hug it out?” Ethan asked.

Zoom’s face turned red, but he pressed on.

“Okay, okay. But what Moose can really do behind the plate is talk. In fact, he won’t shut up the entire time you’re up at bat. You have to be ready for that. He’ll start in before the first pitch, with stuff like: ‘You can’t hit my pitcher. Do you know who that is? Do you have any idea? That’s Kevin Milo, the strikeout king! He’s gonna ring you up on three pitches! Four, tops. You have no shot against him.’”

“Sounds like a major dork,” Sammy said to more chuckles.

Zoom nodded. “Yep, he is. Sometimes the umpire will tell him to shut up when he starts the trash-talking. But I wouldn’t count on it Friday night. Not with the game at their home field. The umpires let them get away with practically everything there. So Moose will just keep yapping. And if he thinks it’s starting to get to you, he’ll yap even more. You can count on that.”

Zoom paused. “Which brings us to his dad, Money Mayhew.”

This elicited a fresh round of boos, mixed with hisses.

“You’ve all heard about him. And whatever you’ve heard is probably not an exaggeration. He won’t shut up all game long, either.”

“Okay, now we know why the kid’s a dork,” Sammy said.

“It’s in his DNA,” Katelyn said. She turned to Hunter. “And before you ask what DNA is, nerd, it’s—”

“Please,” Coach said. “Can we just let Zoom finish? Hunter, look it up when you get home.”

Zoom waited for the laughter to die down. “Moose’s dad will say anything to disrupt the other team’s concentration. He’ll yell at the other team’s batter, ‘This kid can’t hit!’ Or he’ll yell to his pitcher, ‘He keeps crowding the plate like that, stick one in his ear!’”

“Great,” Hunter moaned. “And I was just starting to relax…”

“Or else he’ll dog the other team’s pitcher,” Zoom continued. “He’ll keep up a steady commentary about how nervous the pitcher is, or how wild he looks, or how he’s starting to get tired. Anything to get the kid rattled.”

He shook his head in wonder. “Can you believe he used to make us call him Coach Money?”

“Seriously?” Corey said.

Zoom nodded. “Oh, yeah. He made me run laps once ’cause I just called him ‘Coach.’”

“Oh…my…God!” Katelyn said.

“Anyway, that’s all I got,” Zoom said. He started to sit, then said, “Except…I would love to beat those guys. I really would.”

When Zoom was finished, no one spoke for a moment.

Then Coach said, “So there it is. The keys to playing well Friday night: tune out the atmosphere and the trash-talking; play your game. Easier said than done, I know. But I have faith in this team. You’re going to do fine. Any questions before we call it a day?”

Hunter raised his hand.

“I think I got it,” he said. “Is DNA a rapper?”

As the Orioles exploded in guffaws, Coach smiled and shook his head.

“Wonder if Money Mayhew’s ever been asked that,” he said. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say no.”