This is how you could tell it was a big game: the mayor threw out the first pitch. And they played a scratchy version of “The Star-Spangled Banner” over the sound system, which kept buzzing and squawking and cutting out altogether.

“Why didn’t they do this for the first game?” Willie whispered as the Orioles stood at attention along the first-base line, hands over their hearts.

“They tried to,” Coach murmured. “But the mayor showed up late. And they couldn’t get the sound system to work.”

“Yeah, you see how well it’s working now,” Jordy whispered, setting off a low ripple of laughter.

Connor was glad to see how loose the Orioles were for this one. Gazing over at the Red Sox along the third-base line, he saw that they had their game faces on. Looking most serious of all was Billy, who kept staring in disbelief at Connor and dipping into a pack of sunflower seeds, apparently trying to set the world’s record for most seeds spat during the national anthem.

On the other hand, Connor wasn’t totally loose himself, since he was still trying to get used to the rib pads under his jersey. He had borrowed them from Jordy’s brother, and taken batting and infield practice with them, but they still felt weird, like he should be playing linebacker instead of shortstop. And he knew the extra padding made him look like a kid who needed to cut down on junk food.

“Okay, everyone over here,” Coach said in the dugout as the Red Sox took the field to start the game. “Looks like they’re pitching Billy the last three innings this time. Which means we want to jump on their first pitcher, this Blake kid, right away. Men,” he continued, pausing for dramatic effect and looking each Oriole in the eye, “let’s have some fun and win a championship.”

The fun part started early. The Orioles hitters got to Blake right away, and the Red Sox fielders helped matters by suddenly playing like the Bad News Bears—back when the Bears were really, really bad.

Willie led off with a double to right, and Carlos singled him home. Jordy followed with a drive that nicked off the left fielder’s glove for an error. To make matters worse, the kid picked up the ball and threw it over the head of the cutoff man. It was finally run down by Blake, who proceeded to throw wildly over the catcher’s head, allowing both Carlos and Jordy to score.

Suddenly it was 3–0 Orioles. With no outs.

“Time!” the Red Sox coach yelled, walking slowly to the mound and shaking his head in disgust. He motioned for the entire infield to join him, and ripped into them in a furious voice, wagging a finger in their faces until the umpire finally broke it up.

The Orioles couldn’t hear most of what the coach was saying. But at one point they could hear Billy, who was playing third base, snap, “Hey, don’t blame me!”

“That’s our Billy,” Jordy said with a grin. “Team guy all the way.”

Now Connor was up, his first at bat ever wearing rib pads. Naturally this did not go unnoticed by Billy, who looked at Connor’s billowing jersey and yelled, “Hey, check out this porker!”

Not the most original line, Connor thought as he dug in, his face flaming. But I bet Kyle and Marcus are cracking up.

Blake was rattled—he started out pitching Connor cautiously. He threw two fastballs outside, hoping to get the Orioles shortstop to chase. Then, on his third pitch, he threw the curveball Connor had been waiting for.

The problem for Blake was this: the curveball didn’t curve. At least not enough to be effective.

Connor waited until it was belt-high and lashed at it with a quick, short stroke. Later, even though the swing sent a jolt of pain through him, he would wonder if he had ever hit a ball harder in his life. Even before it cleared the fence in dead center field, he went into his home run trot as the Orioles dugout exploded.

As he rounded third base, Connor knew he shouldn’t do what he was about to do. Coach would have a fit if he ever found out. But Connor couldn’t help himself.

“Oink, oink,” he said softly as he trotted past Billy and headed for home.

Seconds later it was 4–0 Orioles, and he was high-fiving and fist-bumping his cheering teammates on the bench. And now he was extra glad he was wearing rib pads, knowing he’d be facing a steaming-mad Billy Burrell on the mound in the fourth inning. I should probably wear shoulder pads and a face mask, too, when he’s pitching, Connor thought.

“C, what did you say to Billy out there?” Willie asked. “He was giving you that crazy evil eye again.”

Connor shrugged. “I just let him know that even us farm animals can play this game a little.”

The Orioles burst out laughing—Connor was relieved to see that even Coach was chuckling.

The Red Sox got two runs back in the second inning on a double by Dylan, their catcher, and a homer by Blake. They added two more in the third when Robbie surrendered a walk and another homer, this one to Billy, who set another world’s record, this time for slowest home run trot in history.

“Look at that jerk!” Robbie hissed to Connor as Billy crossed home plate. “Stared at me the whole time he circled the bases!”

“Don’t let him get to you,” Connor said. “We’ll get more runs. Still a lot of game to go.”

When the inning was over and they hustled off the field, Coach called another quick meeting. “Anyone ever heard of Yogi Berra?” he asked.

“Sure,” Marty said. “Hall of Fame catcher for the New York Yankees. My dad loves all his goofy sayings. Like: ‘No one goes there anymore, it’s too crowded.’”

Coach nodded. “That’s the guy,” he said. “Well, his most famous saying is, ‘It ain’t over till it’s over.’ And we were playing like this game was over—just ’cause we were up four runs. Well, it ain’t over, gentlemen. Let’s go out there and play hard.”

It was still tied at 4–4 when Billy came on in relief of Blake in the fourth inning for the Red Sox. Billy pitched like his mission was to break eighty miles per hour on the radar gun. He struck out Carlos on three straight fastballs. Each pitch was a blur. Connor half expected to hear cartoon sound effects—WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!—as the ball pounded into Dylan’s catcher’s mitt.

Jordy struck out on three pitches, too, even though he swung early at every pitch—ridiculously early, almost before the ball left Billy’s hands.

“Ohhh-kay, the boy is throwing mad heat,” Willie said nervously. “Maybe we need the X Play again.”

Connor was up. He tapped the rib pads under his jersey, assuring himself they were still there, and stepped into the batter’s box. He took a couple of quick practice swings and stared out at Billy.

The boy was smirking. What a surprise.

Billy went into his windup, rocked back, and fired maybe the fastest pitch Connor had ever seen in his life. He could hear the ball rushing toward him—the comics would’ve labeled this one WHOOSH! He started his swing, but it was too late. Way too late.

Strike one!

The next pitch was another fastball—apparently Billy had put his curveball away for the evening—that dipped at the last minute as it split the middle of the plate. Connor swung again. Not even close.

Strike two!

Connor stepped out of the batter’s box and took a deep breath. He choked up on the bat, stepped back in, and looked out at Billy. He could see Billy’s chest heaving and the sweat glistening on his forehead as he peered in at Dylan for the sign. The kid was so pumped, it looked like he might explode.

Connor gave himself a quick pep talk: You’ve hit this guy before. The harder it comes in, the harder it goes out.

Now Billy reared back and fired another missile. It came in letter-high, the pitch that coaches always told you not to swing at—except they’re standing in the third base coaching box and you’re the one waving a bat, and you have less than a second to make up your mind.

Connor swung. All he hit was air.

Strike three!

Suddenly he felt it again: the old familiar rage. In the next instant he raised the bat over his head, like a lumberjack raising his ax, ready to bring it crashing down on the plate.

Then he heard it.

“NO!”

Connor looked up.

It was Melissa.

She was standing next to the dugout, her cameras around her neck, eyes wide, one hand clasped over her mouth, an expression on her face he’d never seen before.

She looked scared.