At first he couldn’t breathe. Open your eyes, he told himself. But no, he couldn’t—not just yet. It hurt too much, an intense sharp pain in his left side that left him gasping for air and made him think he was about to throw up.

He heard people cry out and run toward him, and now they were bending over him, he was certain of that. But still he couldn’t open his eyes.

For an instant he wondered if the ball had gone clean through his body, like a bullet. He didn’t feel a breeze. Wouldn’t you feel air rushing through you if your body had a big hole in it?

Now he heard Coach shouting, “He threw at him on purpose!” Then the other coach was yelling, and the ump was yelling, and Billy was yelling. Connor wished it were quiet, so he could concentrate on making the pain go away.

Seconds later, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he heard Coach say gently, “Connor, where did it get you?”

He finally opened his eyes. Coach was kneeling in the dirt beside him, and Jordy, Willie, and Robbie were hovering around him in a semicircle, looks of concern on their faces. Connor tried to point to his left side, where the pitch had nailed him, but the movement made him wince.

“Let’s take a look,” Coach said now, pulling up Connor’s jersey. “Yeah, you’ve got a nice welt there.”

Connor lay on the ground for another minute and felt the worst of the pain gradually subsiding, replaced by a dull, insistent ache. When his breathing calmed down, he tried sitting up, and winced again.

“Easy,” Coach said. “Think you can stand?”

Connor nodded, and Jordy, Willie, and Robbie lifted him gingerly to his feet. The crowd gave him a nice round of applause.

“Boys, help him to the dugout,” Coach said. “Marty, you’re in for Conn—”

“Coach, I’m okay,” Connor said. “I’m staying in the game.”

Coach quickly shook his head. “No way,” he said. “Son, you could have a fractured rib!”

“I’m fine,” Connor said. “Look.” He made a throwing motion with his right arm. The pain nearly brought tears to his eyes, but he was careful to keep his face expressionless in front of Coach. There’s no crying in baseball, he told himself. Wasn’t that a famous line from an old movie?

“I don’t know….” Coach was saying now. But Connor had already picked up his helmet and was jogging down to first base as the crowd applauded again.

Billy had remained on the mound the whole time, and now he stared at Connor with what looked like a cross between a smirk and a scowl. What would you call that? Connor wondered. A smowl? Whatever it was, Connor couldn’t wait to wipe it off his face. A win today should take care of it.

What followed was a heated conference between Coach, the Red Sox coach, and the umpire. Connor couldn’t hear much of what they were saying. But the gist seemed to be that Coach wanted Billy ejected from the game—and suspended for the next game, too—for throwing at Connor.

“I can’t read the pitcher’s mind!” Connor heard the ump say. “There’s no way to tell if it was deliberate!”

After the conference was over, the Red Sox coach went out to talk to Billy, and Coach Hammond walked over to first base to see Connor.

“I know that kid threw at you,” he said, still fuming. “But the ump won’t do anything about it.” He took a deep breath and shook his head wearily. “However, just to show us what a good guy he is,” Coach continued, rolling his eyes, “their coach is pulling Billy out of the game. Which he would have done at the end of the inning anyway.”

Connor understood immediately. League rules mandated that you could only pitch six innings in a week. Billy had pitched almost three innings in this game. And the Red Sox definitely wanted him to pitch again in Game 2, which is why they had no problem pulling him now.

“So we’re gonna have to live with this,” Coach said. “How you feeling? Sure you’re okay to play?”

Connor nodded. “I’m good, Coach,” he said. “Guess we’ll just have to beat them without Billy.”

Coach grinned and gave him a clap on the shoulder, which woke up the dull ache in his ribs and made him groan. But Coach was already walking back to the dugout, and the new Red Sox pitcher was taking his warm-up throws.

The game was about to resume. Score: Orioles 1, Red Sox 1. Two outs, the go-ahead run on first base. It almost felt like they were starting a new game.

The new Red Sox pitcher was a big, blond-haired kid named Blake. He didn’t throw nearly as hard as Billy. But he had a great curveball and quickly put it to use, getting Robbie to bounce out to second base to end the Orioles’ threat.

Grabbing his glove and jogging out to short, Connor wondered how well he’d be able to catch and throw. A couple of warm-up grounders from Jordy convinced him he wasn’t hurting the team by staying in the lineup. His left side ached, but he felt he could still make any play he had to—as long as Jordy didn’t expect a perfect throw to first base.

For the next two innings, Blake and Mike Cutko, who came on in relief of Robbie for the Orioles, settled into a scoreless pitchers’ duel.

Now it was the bottom of the sixth inning, the Orioles’ last chance to score and avoid extra innings. The wind was beginning to pick up, and off in the distance, the rumble of thunder could be heard. The umpire kept looking nervously at the sky, making sure there was no lightning in the area.

The inning did not begin well for the Orioles. Jordy led off with a bouncer to second for an easy out, and Connor hit a long drive that the center fielder hauled in at the base of the fence. But Blake walked Mike on four straight pitches, and Yancy Arroyo singled to right, sending Mike to third as the Orioles parents cheered wildly.

Here it was: two outs, runners on first and third, a big storm bearing down on them. It was rally-cap time. In the dugout, the Orioles quickly turned their caps inside out and began clapping and stomping their feet, beseeching the baseball gods to deliver a run.

Except maybe the baseball gods aren’t tuned in to this game, Connor thought.

Because shuffling to the plate now as a pinch hitter was none other than Marty Loopus.

In the dugout, Willie turned to Connor and said, “Know the five scariest words in baseball? It’s all up to Marty.”

Connor mustered a grin, but his ribs were aching and his stomach was churning. He was pretty sure his wasn’t the only stomach that was churning, though. Everyone on the bench was either furiously chewing gum or furiously chewing sunflower seeds to cope with the tension. Willie had even picked up his glove and was furiously chewing on the dangling leather strings.

Suddenly, as Marty dug in the batter’s box, Coach called time-out. He walked down from the third base coaching box and motioned for Marty to join him for a conference. With his arm around Marty’s shoulders, Coach murmured instructions for a few seconds. Then Marty nodded grimly and headed back to the plate.

Now Coach was flashing signs to the runners on first and third, touching the brim of his cap, tugging at his ear, wiping a hand across his chest, and touching his elbow.

He was signaling for the X Play! Even though there were already two outs.

But it worked—well, there was no other way to say it—perfectly.

Sure enough, on Blake’s next pitch, Yancy Arroyo broke for second base. Halfway down the line, he suddenly sprawled in the base path as if he’d been shot.

Marty pretended to square around as if to bunt, then pulled the bat back at the last second. Seeing Yancy floundering, Dylan, the Red Sox catcher, gathered in the pitch, came out of his crouch, and fired a bullet to the shortstop covering second.

Which was when Mike broke for home, sliding across the plate as the throw from the panicked Red Sox shortstop sailed over his head and hit the backstop.

Orioles 2, Red Sox 1.

Game over.

One more win and the Orioles were champions.

As Mike jumped to his feet and threw his hands up in celebration, the Orioles poured out of the dugout, whooping with joy, mobbing Mike and pounding him on the helmet.

“Did I come through or what!” Marty shouted to anyone who would listen. “Did ya see me pull that bat back and confuse the pitcher?”

“You’re the best bat-puller-backer I’ve ever seen!” Willie yelled.

On the outskirts of the mob scene at home plate, Connor spotted Melissa recording it all with her video camera, a big smile on her face. “Are you okay?” she mouthed, pointing to her ribs. But before he could answer, Mike was jumping on his back and screaming, “The X Play comes through!”

Moments later, after the players on both teams had lined up to slap hands amid the first drops of rain, Connor was left with this thought: It sure would be nice to celebrate this one with the guys, maybe go somewhere and grab an ice cream or a soda.

But right now he was in the passenger seat of Coach’s pickup truck, the windshield wipers slapping rhythmically as they headed for the emergency room.

His ribs were throbbing. His head was pounding. His mouth was bone-dry, and his face was caked with dirt.

Some celebration.