Thick, dark clouds hovered as far as the eye could see, and the air smelled moist and earthy as the Orioles took the field for Game 1 of their series against the Red Sox.

“Please don’t let it rain,” Connor whispered as he trotted out to short and Jordy began throwing warm-up grounders to the infielders. “Not tonight. We want these guys.”

The stands were packed and buzzing with excitement, as they had been since both teams finished taking infield and outfield practice. Connor wondered if he had ever been more psyched to play a game in his whole life, with both the league championship on the line and a chance for some payback for Mr. Tire-Slasher himself.

A few minutes earlier, Coach Hammond had gathered the Orioles in the dugout and given them his best pep talk—his “Vince Lombardi speech,” he called it, after the old Green Bay Packers coach who had won so many NFL titles. His voice rising and the veins in his neck bulging, Coach had quickly warmed to his subject: we’re too good to let anything, even Billy Burrell and his blazing fastball, beat us.

“Be hacking up there at the plate,” Coach said in conclusion. “Don’t be afraid of this guy.”

“Easy for him to say,” Marty grumbled. “He’s not playing.”

At this, Connor had shot a warning glance at Willie and mouthed: “No, don’t say it.”

Left unspoken was this thought: barring something like a swine flu epidemic raging through the Orioles in the next ninety minutes, Marty wouldn’t be playing much, either.

Robbie set the Red Sox down one-two-three in the first inning, throwing crisply and mixing in a nice curveball that had the batters off-balance and flailing helplessly.

When the Red Sox took the field in the bottom of the inning, Billy stepped on the mound and made a big show of glaring at the Orioles dugout for several seconds.

“Play ball, son,” the umpire said. “Do that nonsense somewhere else.”

As Billy began taking his warm-up pitches, the Orioles glanced nervously at each other. Billy was throwing harder than they’d ever seen him throw. Each pitch seemed to rock the Red Sox pudgy catcher, Dylan, back on his heels. It seemed as if Billy had added another ten miles per hour to his fastball since the last time they faced him.

“The boy’s a major-league jerk, no denying that,” Willie said in the on-deck circle, chomping hard on his bubble gum. “But he sure can throw smoke.”

On Billy’s final warm-up pitch, the ball sailed over the catcher’s head and exploded against the backstop with a loud WHAP!

With a smirk, Billy stared at the Orioles dugout again. “Gee, looks like I’m a little wild today,” he shouted.

“Probably not a good idea to dig in, guys.”

“Twenty-two, that’s a warning,” the ump said, using Billy’s uniform number. “One more word, and you’re gone.”

Connor knew that Billy’s control was excellent—the best in the whole league—and that his last pitch was designed simply to intimidate the Orioles.

Unfortunately, it seemed to be working on at least one of his teammates. Marty, he noticed, had turned pale. Sitting at the end of the bench, Marty was rocking back and forth with his arms squeezed tightly against his chest.

What was that condition when you were so nervous you couldn’t catch your breath? Hyperventilation? Marty looked like he could use a paper bag to breathe into about now.

Yet it seemed as if Billy might have been a little too amped-up himself, because Willie drew a lead-off walk on five pitches. He promptly stole second, causing Billy to stomp halfway to the plate and snarl at his catcher: “Think you could throw even one base runner out this season?”

Hidden behind his face mask, Dylan dropped his head in embarrassment and pretended to adjust his shin guards.

“Unbelievable!” Coach Hammond said, shaking his head at Billy’s antics. “This kid is the poster boy for spoiled brats. And his coach lets him get away with that stuff!”

Connor felt a twinge of shame. Brat? Yeah, he knew a little something about that.

Carlos Molina went down swinging on a 3–2 fastball, and Jordy struck out on three straight fastballs, talking to himself in frustration as he walked back to the dugout.

Two outs, and Connor was up. As he knocked the weighted doughnut off his bat in the on-deck circle, he imagined for a moment what it would sound like if the PA announcer was introducing him at Camden Yards: “Now bat-ting for the O-ri-oles, num-ber ten, Con-nor Sull-i-van!”

He took his time strolling to the plate and digging in the batter’s box, knowing all this was driving Billy crazy. When it looked as if he were finally ready to hit, he held up his right hand and asked the ump for time. Then he stepped out of the box again, pretending to adjust his batting gloves.

Sure enough, Billy was fuming. His face had turned a deep shade of crimson, and he kicked at the pitching rubber in frustration, imploring the ump to speed Connor along.

Connor hated when guys stepped out of the batter’s box during at bats. And he hated having to play this little mind game with Billy. But he knew Billy was a powder keg with a seventy-five-mile-per-hour fastball, and that anything he could do to disrupt his rhythm would help the Orioles.

As Connor had hoped, Billy was so angry now he couldn’t even think straight. The moment Connor was ready, the pitcher went into his windup and threw harder than ever.

Ball one, outside.

The next pitch was thrown even harder, with the same result. Ball two.

The third pitch skipped in the dirt in front of the plate, blocked expertly by Dylan, who was lighter on his feet than he looked. Ball three.

Connor stepped out again and took a couple of lazy swings, buying time to assess the situation.

No way he wants to walk me, he thought. He’ll take something off this pitch, just to get it over the plate.

He looked down at Coach in the third-base coaching box to see if the “take” sign was on—and was relieved to see it wasn’t. Coach was probably thinking the same thing he was: Billy was about to throw a meatball.

Even as Billy went into his windup, Connor knew he was right. Billy had slowed everything down to a crawl, making his movements so deliberate and mechanical he might as well have been holding a sign that said: “Pitcher is about to groove one! Swing from the heels!”

The pitch came in fat and belt-high, as Connor knew it would. He turned on it perfectly and drove a shot into the gap in left-center field. By the time the outfielders had chased it down, Willie had scored and Connor was rounding second base and cruising in with a stand-up triple.

Just like that, it was 1–0 Orioles.

Billy, who had been backing up the third baseman on the play, stomped past Connor and growled: “You’re so freakin’ lucky. That won’t happen again—promise.”

Don’t say anything, Connor told himself. Let him be the new walking Mount Vesuvius. I’m happy to relinquish the title.

Robbie bounced to first for the final out, stranding Connor at third. But in the Orioles dugout, there was new life. Suddenly the best pitcher in the league looked vulnerable—even if he did look old enough to drive the team bus.

The Red Sox pushed a run across in the top of the third inning to tie it when Robbie walked the first two hitters, and the next batter—Connor recognized him as Kyle, one of the Scowling Stooges—singled up the middle.

But the Orioles threatened again in the bottom of the inning when, with two outs, Carlos drew a walk from Billy, and Jordy hit a slow bouncer that the third baseman booted for an error.

The error seemed to unravel Billy—he stood with his hands on his hips, staring at his third baseman, before stalking around the mound muttering to himself. When he turned back to the plate and saw Connor coming up to bat, a strange look came over his face.

Connor took his time getting set again, digging in with his back foot before stepping in with his left foot.

But this time Billy wasn’t about to wait.

Before the umpire could say anything, he reared back and threw his hardest pitch of the night. It was a fastball that seemed to whistle on its way to the plate, darting and rising like a startled hummingbird.

It hit Connor square in the ribs.

He yelped and went down in a heap.