Connor tried to remember the last time he was a spectator at Eddie Murray Field instead of a ballplayer. Maybe it was back when he was five years old, when his dad would take him to watch the older kids play. The two of them would hang out behind the backstop, Connor perched on his dad’s shoulders, his dad calling out what kind of pitch had just been thrown and asking him whether it was a ball or strike.

Back then he’d felt on top of the world. Today, as the Orioles prepared to face the Tigers and he prepared to sit in the stands with a big, fat suspension, he felt like the world’s biggest loser.

Wait, wasn’t there a reality show called The Biggest Loser? That was about people trying to lose weight. If they ever came up with a show about wacko young ballplayers with anger issues, Connor was sure they’d call him. They’d probably send a limo to pick him up the same day.

He walked over to the sidelines, where the Orioles were warming up, and Coach Hammond was filling out the lineup card. Everyone seemed happy to see him, which made him feel better. He gathered the team around him and quickly apologized for his meltdowns.

“Yo, Connor,” said Willie Pitts. “When you do the mass apology thing, you have to say ‘I apologize to anyone whom I might have offended.’” Willie put his hand over his heart and looked reverent. “That’s what all the politicians and pro athletes and movie stars do.”

“Yeah,” said Jordy. “And when you’re done, you have to look at the audience and say: ‘I will not be taking any questions. My family and I ask that you respect our privacy during this difficult time.’”

Everyone laughed, including Coach Hammond. Connor looked down sheepishly. But he had to admit Willie and Jordan were right—that was how all those big-shot public apologies sounded. Totally insincere.

Just last week, another major league ballplayer, Los Angeles Dodgers slugger Dean (Dream) Sanders, had tested positive for steroids and been slapped with a three-month suspension. And during a nationally televised news conference a few days later, a tearful Sanders had essentially mouthed—almost word for word—the same platitudes Willie and Jordy had just uttered.

As the laughter died down, Marty Loopus walked up to Connor, put both hands on his shoulders, and looked him squarely in the eye. “Playoffs start next week,” he said solemnly. “Promise us you’ll control that famous temper of yours? Or do I have to keep carrying this team by myself?”

Now the rest of the Orioles hooted and laughed and smacked Marty with their caps as a grinning Connor held up his hand and said: “I promise, I promise!”

Finally Coach Hammond shouted: “Game starts in five minutes, gentlemen!” and the Orioles went back to their warm-ups.

League rules dictated that suspended players couldn’t sit in the dugout with their team during a game, so Connor took a seat in the stands, which were already filling up.

Jordy’s mom smiled and waved as he climbed the bleachers. So did Mr. and Mrs. Molina, Gabe’s parents; and Mr. Pitts, Willie’s dad. Mr. Zinno, Joey’s dad, who never said a word to anyone at these games, even came over, shook his hand, and said, “Gonna miss you out there, champ. Need you back in the lineup.”

But there was something else about the way the parents looked at him. Was that pity he saw in their eyes? Or were they saying a little prayer to themselves: Thank God that spoiled brat isn’t my kid? Might as well be wearing a sign around my neck that says HEAD CASE, Connor thought, his mood darkening again.

For once he was glad not to have his own parents here. Wouldn’t they be proud, watching their boy sit out for disciplinary reasons!

As the Orioles took the field, Connor saw something else that didn’t improve his mood. Melissa Morrow, red hair swinging in a ponytail underneath a baseball cap, was clambering up the steps toward him.

Instantly he felt a throbbing in his forehead.

“The great Connor Sullivan! Thought I’d find you here,” she said, plopping her backpack down next to him. “This is the game you sit out, right? For going nuts against the Yankees?”

That’s Melissa for you, Connor thought. As subtle as a punch in the mouth.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“Not a problem,” Melissa said, pulling out a camera and notebook. “But it’ll have to be after the game. Just ’cause you’re not playing doesn’t mean I’m not working.”

Quickly, she changed lenses on her camera, looped it around her neck, and went clattering back down the bleachers. For a moment, Connor fantasized about reaching into the backpack she left behind, pulling out Melissa’s camcorder, and deleting his big meltdown. No, he was too chicken. Besides, with his luck, he’d probably be arrested.

That would be a nice phone conversation to have with his parents: “Mom, Dad, I’m in jail. How’re we fixed for bail money?”

When she reached the bottom of the bleachers, Melissa turned, pointed the camera up at him, and began clicking away.

Great, Connor thought. I can see the photo caption now: “Hothead ballplayer serves well-deserved suspension. Did this dope finally learn his lesson?”

When she finished, she smiled, gave him the thumbs-up sign, and walked down the first-base line to shoot game action.

And there was plenty of that—unfortunately, not the kind the Orioles wanted to see.

Mike Cutko, their number two pitcher, made it through the first two innings without incident. But he gave up two runs in the third on a mammoth home run by Deon Mobley, the Tigers catcher, and two more in the fifth on two errors, a walk, and a double.

Meanwhile, the Orioles bats were quiet. No, they were more than quiet—they were practically comatose.

Jordy singled in the third inning, and Marty Loopus reached on a slow roller to second that the Tiger second baseman managed to trip over. Somehow it was ruled a hit by the official scorer, prompting Marty to do the kind of celebratory dance normally reserved for a walk-off homer. And that was it for the Orioles offense.

You know you’re in trouble when Marty Loopus is your second-leading hitter, Connor thought.

He cheered hard for his team the whole game, even though it felt weird to be clapping from the sidelines instead of in the thick of the action. But the final score was Tigers 5, Orioles 0. The Orioles had lost their second game of the season, which made him feel guilty and even more like a loser.

The Orioles were still going to the playoffs—both the Yankees and Red Sox had lost a day earlier, which meant both teams had two losses, too. But now there was no margin for error. One more loss, and the O’s’ season would be over, thanks to a certain star shortstop who couldn’t control his emotions.

As the two teams slapped hands, Connor grabbed Melissa’s backpack and hurried down to the field. He found her over by the Orioles dugout, taking photos of Marty Loopus in his batting stance as Marty recounted, with great enthusiasm and detail, his titanic roller to second base.

“Connor!” Marty said when he spotted him. “Was I all over that pitch, or what?”

“You owned that guy, Marty,” Connor said. “Now, uh, could you excuse us for a moment?”

He took Melissa by the elbow and steered her to a spot a few feet away.

“What’s up, hotshot?” she said. “Oh, that’s right, you wanted to talk.”

Connor lowered his voice, not wanting the entire Orioles team, as well as parents, siblings, groundskeepers, and the folks who ran the concession stand to listen in.

“I understand you have a video of my, um, unfortunate behavior against the Yankees,” he began.

“Sure do,” Melissa said. “It’s a beauty, too. A classic study of anger and frustration, captured in astonishing detail.”

“You make it sound like it’s up for an Oscar,” Connor said.

Melissa beamed and nodded. “It’s some of my best work as a photojournalist,” she said.

“Well, that’s…great, Melissa. But you’re not really, uh, putting it on the school’s Web site tonight?”

“Oh, no,” Melissa said. “I couldn’t do that.”

Connor breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“But it’ll be up there first thing tomorrow,” Melissa said. “Soon as I get to school.”

“What?!” Connor said. “But you can’t…!”

Melissa rolled her eyes and shook her head, letting Connor know her infinite supply of patience was being sorely tested. “Remember the little chat we had about the First Amendment? Do we have to go over that again?”

“No, it’s not that….” Connor said. He groped for the right words. “Look, I’m not a young athlete feeling too much pressure to succeed, or whatever you’re writing. I’m just a kid dealing with a family thing. And I…I let it get to me.”

“You sure do blow up nicely for the camera,” Melissa said.

It was a struggle for Connor to keep himself from blowing up right then. He took a deep breath and tried not to talk through gritted teeth. “But I’m better now, honest,” he said. Was his voice getting whiny? He couldn’t be sure. “It’s not going to happen again. At least give me a chance to prove it.”

“That’d be good for you, but what’s in it for me?” Melissa said. “I’d be left without a story.”

“What about the story you were going to write before? You know, the big profile? ‘Inquiring minds want to know,’ and all that?”

“That was before you got really interesting,” she said. “Anger issues are so fascinating. Don’t you agree?”

Connor felt himself blush. Or flush with anger—he wasn’t sure which.

“Look,” he said, “you can interview me for as long as you want.”

“How generous of you,” she said dryly. She took her backpack from him and carefully placed her camera and notebook inside. Then she zipped it up and slipped both arms through the loops.

“So, do we have a deal?” Connor asked hopefully.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

“Oh, come on!” Connor said. “Give me a break!”

“Uh-uh,” Melissa said, wagging her finger. “Temper, temper.” She started to walk away, leaving him standing there, slack-jawed.

Then she turned to deliver one last zinger. “You know something, Connor? You’re cute when you’re stressed.”

Then I must be a real knockout, Connor thought, because I’m majorly stressed right now.