Connor watched his dad climb behind the wheel of the family SUV, fasten his seatbelt, and punch in the address of Eddie Murray Field on the Garmin GPS affixed to the windshield.

His dad tapped go on the screen. A colorful street map appeared. “Drive to highlighted route,” a female voice said.

“Hmm, not bad,” Bill Sullivan said. He turned to Connor in the passenger seat and flashed the thumbs-up sign.

“Uh, Dad?” Connor said. “You don’t know the way? You’ve only driven to the field about ten thousand times.”

“Yes, I know the way, wise guy. But I’m trying out a new voice.” The old voice on his GPS, called American English Jill in the instruction booklet, was too pushy and insistent, he said. When he made a wrong turn, Jill said “Recalculating” in a tone that suggested she was annoyed and mystified as to how he ever got his driver’s license in the first place. Hence, this trial run with Australian English Carol.

“In five hundred feet, turn left,” Carol intoned.

“Isn’t that a nice Aussie accent?” his dad said. “She’s much less judgmental. You can tell already.”

Connor shook his head and grinned. “If you say so,” he said, drumming his fingers impatiently on the dashboard. “Now, can we please get going? I don’t want to be late.”

Actually, there was no danger of that happening, since there was a full hour before game time, and the field was only a mile or so away.

But this was Connor’s first game in two weeks, ever since his Black Friday blowup and suspension, and he was eager to see his teammates and play ball. It was also the Orioles’ first and long-awaited playoff game. This one was do-or-die against the Yankees—winner goes on to play the winner of the Braves–Red Sox game in a best-of-three series for the championship; loser goes home to sulk.

Connor was so pumped, he had changed into his uniform the minute he got home from school. After that he had grabbed his glove and ball and gone out to the bounceback net and warmed up for forty-five minutes.

Pre-pregame warm-up, he called it. Hitting the bounceback net was a good way to work off the butterflies, which were now doing strafing runs in his stomach.

“How’re you feeling, buddy?” his dad asked—a little gingerly, it seemed to Connor. “You’re just gonna go out there and have fun, right?”

“I’m good, Dad,” Connor said. “No need to worry.”

His dad nodded and patted his arm. “I’m not worried,” he said. “You’ll do fine.”

Sure, Dad, Connor thought. We’re both big fat liars.

When they got to the field, Connor was out of his seat belt and reaching for the door handle before the car even stopped.

“You know I’d stay if I could,” his dad said. “But the sales manager at Somerville Ford asked me to swing by. I think they’d love to hire me—if their business ever picks up. But that’s a big if.”

“I know,” Connor said. “Good luck. Let me know what happens.”

Actually, until he was sure he had his temper under control, Connor was fine with his parents not being at his games. He leaned over and hugged his dad. Then he bolted from the car and sprinted across the parking lot to the field. The grass had never looked greener, he decided, and the red clay of the infield had never looked more inviting.

As Connor stretched in front of the Orioles dugout, players from both teams began to arrive.

“The big dog is back!” Willie said when he spotted Connor. He cupped his hands around his mouth and turned to the opposing dugout. “Hey, Yankees!” he shouted. “Might as well save yourselves a lot of grief and go home now! You got no chance! The great Connor Sullivan is in the house!”

“Yeah, Yankees!” added Marty Loopus. “You got to worry about another slugger besides me now!”

That one had all the Orioles laughing.

“Way to put pressure on me,” Connor said. But secretly he was pleased that his teammates thought so highly of him, even though it made him more nervous.

Just then, Jordy came up and threw an arm around his shoulders. “You’re cool today, right?” he said in a low voice. “We’re all behind you, you know that.”

Connor nodded. Jordy’s the greatest, he thought. Always has my back.

“I won’t let you guys down again,” he said. “Promise.”

Seemingly buoyed by Connor’s presence, the Orioles jumped all over the Yankees right away. Willie led off the first inning with a single to right, and Carlos Molina doubled him home. Jordy singled Carlos home, and now Connor stepped into the batter’s box.

He could feel his heart pounding as he dug in with his right cleat, then the left, getting the balanced feeling in his lower body that told him he was ready.

“Level swing, Connor!” Coach Hammond shouted. More coach-speak for: Son, I know you’re totally jacked up for this one, but don’t try to kill the ball.

But Connor killed it anyway.

Maybe it was weeks of anxiety and frustration coming out, transferred from his brain to his legs and hips and arms and shoulders. Whatever the reason, he took a short, powerful swing at the first pitch, a fastball over the plate. The ball jumped off his bat and screamed over the center-field fence for a two-run homer, making it 4–0 Orioles.

The Orioles dugout erupted, and Connor went into his home run trot. As he rounded third and neared home, he looked up and saw Melissa snapping photos from behind the chain-link fence. Suddenly, she lowered her camera, smiled, and waved.

Connor was so surprised that he started to wave back. Then he caught himself. What would Coach Hammond think of a player waving while he circled the bases after a homer? He could almost hear Coach snorting and spitting out the words “bush league.”

The Orioles added two more runs in the third inning when the Yankees relief pitcher couldn’t find the plate and walked four batters in a row before hitting the fifth batter.

“Just throw strikes, Mikey!” came a voice from the stands, probably the kid’s dad.

Connor smiled. Just throw strikes. That one always cracked him up. As if the kid wasn’t trying to throw strikes already. As if he’d hear that and a little lightbulb would go off in his head, just like in the cartoons, and he’d think, Hey-y-y! Strikes! Why didn’t I think of that?

The only dumber advice people shouted to struggling young pitchers was, “Just you and the catcher, babe. Pitch and catch!”

Sure, Connor thought. Just you and the catcher—and a batter waving a bat menacingly, and an umpire behind the plate, and seven players behind you, and fifty people in the stands watching your every move.

The Yankees came back with three runs in the fourth inning as Robbie Hammond had control problems of his own, walking two before Mike Messing, their big slugger, belted a homer over the right-field fence.

In the fifth inning, the Yankees threatened again. Their leadoff batter reached on a single to left. Robbie ran the count to 3 and 2 on the next batter, and then reared back and threw him a fastball inside for strike three.

Just then, the runner on first broke for second.

Joey Zinno came out of his crouch behind the plate and fired a perfect throw down to second. Connor moved smoothly in front of the bag, ready to gather the throw for a sweeping tag of the sliding base runner.

Except…he dropped the ball.

It bounced harmlessly at the runner’s feet.

For a few seconds it was as if everyone—including the Orioles, Coach Hammond, and all the parents in the stands—was holding his or her breath, waiting to see what Connor would do.

And what he did next amazed everyone, including himself.

Scowling, he ripped the glove off his left hand and held it high in the air. But instead of slamming it to the ground, he…whacked himself over the head with it.

Then he took a deep breath. And smiled.

“Shake it off, C!” Jordy yelled, and suddenly everyone on the Orioles was chattering at once, telling him: “Hey, nice try, no big deal, we’ll get the next guy.”

And they did.

Robbie struck out the next batter on a nasty curveball that had the kid bailing out before the ball was halfway to the plate. And the next batter lifted a high fly ball to center that Yancy Arroyo caught for the third out.

As they hustled off the field, one Oriole after another touched gloves with Connor and said, “Good job” or “Way to go.” In the dugout, Coach Hammond said to him, “What you did out there, that was a little weird.”

Connor winced a little. He knew Coach didn’t like any display of emotion on the field.

Then Coach broke out in a smile. “But it worked. Hope you didn’t lose any brain cells.”

Connor grinned and staggered around like a drunk, making everyone in the dugout crack up.

The Orioles held on for a 6–3 win. As they lined up to slap hands with the Yankees after the game, Melissa ran up to Connor with her video camera running.

“Nice to see you smiling after a game,” she said.

“Nice to be smiling,” he said. Then he remembered: “So, you going to hold up your end of our bargain?”

“Guess I have to,” Melissa said. Connor thought she looked a little disappointed. “But I did get that little glove-on-head maneuver on tape. Can I use that, at least?”

Connor laughed. “Let’s see how the rest of the games go. Maybe you’ll have a whole reel of Connor Sullivan bloopers to post.”

“Hmm,” Melissa said. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. I’ll have to find the right music to go with it…. See ya next time, hotshot.”

As he watched Melissa run off, her red ponytail bouncing, Connor felt as if he’d passed some kind of test. He wasn’t sure if he was more relieved or more tired from burning all the nervous energy he’d stored all day.

All he knew was this: two more wins and the Orioles were champions.

And he, their walking Mount Vesuvius, hadn’t erupted—at least, not yet.