Jogging slowly out to short, Connor found himself whispering: “Just hang on, Orioles.” He had never wanted to win a game more in his life.

Winning the championship would make up for a lot of things. It would make up for all the tension at home after his dad’s layoff. It would make up for all the crappy weeks when he was having meltdowns that nearly got him kicked off the team.

It would even make up for his not being able to attend the Brooks Robinson Camp, which he wanted to do more than anything else in the world.

Connor knew the Orioles hadn’t nailed the game down yet. A one-run lead was nothing. The Red Sox hadn’t made it to the championship game because they stunk. They weren’t going to just lie down and die.

But Mike had found his groove now. He looked focused and relaxed during his warm-up pitches, the ball popping into Joey’s mitt with authority. Briefly, Connor wondered if Willie’s “death threat” had actually worked. A new coaching technique! Whatever. Mike looked ready to go out there.

And he was.

He struck out the first Red Sox batter on a nasty 2–2 curveball that broke sharply at the last minute and had the kid swinging at a ball in the dirt. The second batter hit a weak grounder to second that Willie gobbled up easily, throwing him out by ten steps.

The Red Sox were down to their last out.

Now the Orioles were a picture of concentration, each player on his toes and locked in on the game, the noise from the stands growing louder and louder. For the Red Sox, it was all up to Dylan. Their stocky catcher had some pop in his bat. Coach motioned for the outfielders to move back.

“Don’t leave the ball up, Mike,” Connor said to himself. “Not to this guy.”

Mike pitched Dylan carefully. Ball one was low and away. Ball two was inside. Now he had to put one over the plate. And Dylan knew it.

The big catcher stepped out and took a practice swing. He dug his right foot in the batter’s box, stepped back in with his left foot, and held the bat high, waving it in tiny circles.

Mike went into his windup. This time he threw a fastball, belt-high, and Dylan uncoiled with a vicious swing. Connor heard the crack of bat meeting ball and held his breath. But instead of a long drive to the outfield, Dylan hit a towering pop-up behind third base.

Connor and Carlos drifted back, both of them calling for it, tapping their gloves with their fists as the ball fell from the deep blue sky.

Connor’s side was throbbing. For an instant, he wondered if he’d be able to raise his glove hand to make the catch. He started to shout to Carlos, “You take it!”

But now they heard the sound of running footsteps behind them and another voice—a shrill, insistent voice—screaming over and over: “I got it! I got it!”

At the last second, a skinny arm with a glove attached to it appeared over their heads.

Marty Loopus leaped high in the air and caught the ball. Crashing into Connor and Carlos, he stumbled for a moment, squeezed his glove closed, and held it high over his head.

Then he yelled as loud as he could, “WE DID IT!”

Game over. The Orioles were champions.

They came from every direction, cheering and screaming and jumping on Marty. Jordy landed on him first, and Willie followed. Soon they were all tumbling to the ground and laughing. Connor fell on top of the pile, not caring anymore about the pain in his ribs. Looking up, he saw Melissa standing a few feet away, smiling and snapping photos of the whole raucous celebration.

When they finally untangled themselves and walked off the field to more applause from the stands, Connor heard a familiar voice calling his name. Looking up, he saw his dad, giving him the thumbs-up sign. Mom and Brianna were there too, grinning and waving. He waved back, pumped his fist, and howled.

Then he wondered, What’s Dad doing here? Does that mean he…?

But Connor would think about that later. Right now he wanted to enjoy this perfect moment.

Maybe the most perfect moment of his life.