St. Vincent’s Hospital was huge, an imposing complex perched high on a hill overlooking the south side of town.

Years earlier, when Connor and Jordy were driving home from a travel tournament with Connor’s dad, they had passed the hospital, and Connor had said casually, “That’s where my mom works.”

Gazing at the massive buildings, Jordy’s eyes had lit up.

“Your mom works in a prison?” he’d said. “That is so cool!”

Connor and his dad had dissolved in a fit of laughter over that one. But looking at the place now as Coach drove through the main gate, Connor had to admit that it did sort of look like the big house, as his dad always called it.

Moments later, he made another observation: when a twelve-year-old kid walks into the ER where his mom works, holding his ribs and looking like he was just run over by a tractor, it will get her attention—and fast.

As soon as she spotted Connor and Coach, his mom’s eyes widened. She jumped up from behind the admissions desk and came rushing toward them, a look of alarm on her face.

Coach quickly held up both hands in the universal don’tpanic, everything’s-all-right gesture.

“He got plunked in the ribs by a pitch,” Coach explained. “Don’t think anything’s broken. Just making sure.”

Connor saw his mom’s features relax. She bent down and gently put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes.

“You okay, hon?” she said. “Show me where it hurts.”

He pointed to where the ache in his ribs was steadily growing worse now. She pulled up his jersey and looked at his side for a moment.

“You’re going to have some bruise there,” she said. “If it’s just a bruise.”

The emergency room was busy this evening, as it always was at the start of a weekend, according to his mom.

There was a man holding a blood-stained towel over one eye and a teenage boy holding his wrist close to his chest, as if it might be broken. There was a worried-looking couple taking turns holding and rocking a crying toddler in one corner of the room. There was a little girl with a big bandage on the back of her hand; she had been bitten by a dog, her mother said. And moments later, two young guys in softball uniforms came in supporting a third guy in uniform, who was limping with an ice pack wrapped around his swollen ankle.

But the good thing, said his mom, was that the “loonies” weren’t out yet. Connor wasn’t exactly sure who the “loonies” were. But Coach said his mom was probably referring to people who always seemed to end up in the ER late at night after drinking or taking drugs and doing something crazy to hurt themselves.

Connor and Coach settled into a couple of hard plastic chairs and spent the next forty-five minutes watching a program called Top Chef Masters on the overhead TV.

“A cooking show!” Coach grumbled. “And we can’t change the channel. So now they’ll have folks here who are hurt and bored!”

Finally Connor’s mom came over and said: “Okay, let’s go see the doctor.”

“I’ll wait here,” Coach said, looking up at the TV. He rolled his eyes. “They’re about to baste a chicken. The tension is unbearable. I can’t miss a minute of it.”

Connor and his mom laughed. Then they went through the double doors and into a cubicle set off with curtains. Connor got up on the examining table, and a nurse took his blood pressure. Moments later, a friendly-looking man in a white coat entered. He introduced himself as Dr. Bill Rose, and he listened to Connor’s heart and lungs with his stethoscope before examining his left side.

It made Connor wince when the doctor pressed in certain places. But all the while, Dr. Rose kept up a steady conversation, asking Connor how his team was doing, what position he played, and who his favorite big-league Oriole was, among other things. It helped take Connor’s mind off the occasional jabs of pain.

“Okay,” the doctor said finally. “Let’s get some X-rays.”

How long did the whole thing take? Forty-five minutes? Three hours? To Connor, it seemed to take forever. Then he and his mom returned to the cubicle. A few minutes later, Dr. Rose entered, holding the film up against the overhead light.

“Well,” he said, “there’s the proverbial good news and bad news. The good news is: you didn’t break anything.”

Connor looked at his mom and saw her give a big sigh of relief. He tried returning her smile, but he was shivering now and exhausted. His ribs were aching worse than ever from all the poking and prodding he’d undergone.

“But,” the doctor continued, “the bad news is this: no more baseball. At least not for a while. You’ve got a pretty good contusion there. We can’t risk you getting hit in the same spot. It could do a lot of tissue damage.”

Connor was stunned. He looked at Dr. Rose to see if this could be some kind of joke. But the doctor wasn’t smiling or winking the way adults usually did when they were joking with kids.

Now Connor’s mind was racing. No more baseball? With the Orioles one game away from the championship? After all I’ve been through this season?

“NO!” he shouted.

He jumped down from the examining table. Before he could stop himself, he reared back and kicked the metal wastebasket as hard as he could. It smashed against the table with a loud WHAM!

“CONNOR!” his mom shouted.

The sudden movement made his side hurt worse than ever. But that didn’t matter now. It was all so unfair! No more baseball? Why don’t they just tell me to stop breathing, too?!

Angrily, he grabbed his jersey and ran out into the hallway. Already the tears were stinging his eyes. Billy and the Scowling Stooges hoisting the championship trophy?

No way, he thought. I’m playing the next game if it kills me.