Billy Burrell looked even bigger and older and scarier—if that was possible—than he had the last time he had faced the Orioles.

Warming up on the mound, the Red Sox pitcher appeared to be seven feet tall. His cap was pulled low on his forehead, shading two dark slits that might have been his eyes. His windup was all arms and legs unfolding at crazy angles. And his pitches popped into the catcher’s mitt with a loud THWACK!

“The boy can bring it a little,” Willie Pitts said, leaning on his bat and studying Billy from the on-deck circle.

“Someone check his ID,” said Jordy Marsh. “I swear I saw him in a Gillette commercial.”

Once the game started, Billy wasted no time showing off his stuff. He got Willie, the O’s’ leadoff batter, on a bouncer to second base. Carlos Molina struck out on three fastballs. Jordy ran the count to 3 and 2, and struck out on a curveball that seemed to break from somewhere near third base.

As he walked off the mound, Billy stared into the Orioles dugout. Then he pretended to blow on the smoking barrel of a six-shooter.

“Oooh, we’re scared!” yelled Marty Loopus, who actually would have been terrified if he were facing Billy instead of riding the bench.

“Guys, don’t pay attention to that garbage,” Coach Hammond said. “Just play the game.”

Connor looked over at his coach. The guy was as old-school as they came—buzz cut, neatly-trimmed mustache, wearing his signature blue Police Athletic League Windbreaker, a testament to his twenty-two years on the Baltimore police force. The Orioles knew it drove Coach nuts to see young ballplayers celebrating wildly after a home run or a great catch or a well-pitched inning. The truth was, Coach didn’t like them doing anything that could make a player on the other team feel bad. “Showing up the other guy,” is what he called it.

Seeing Coach’s reaction to Billy’s taunts, Connor thought back to an early-season game against the Dodgers. Robbie Hammond, Coach’s son and the Orioles’ best pitcher, had struck out a batter with the bases loaded to end the inning. As he walked off the mound, Robbie had yelled “Yeah!” and pumped his fist. When Robbie reached the dugout, Coach had gathered the Orioles around him. “If you struck out,” he told them, “would you want some knucklehead yelling and pumping his fist at you? Let’s play with class, gentlemen.”

Robbie had been mortified at his dad’s words. He’d hung his head and stared at the cement floor. But Coach had made his point. The Orioles knew better than to do any trash-talking or showboating when he was around.

Billy Burrell, Connor decided, would last about five seconds around Coach.

In the second inning, Connor lined a clean single over Billy’s head to start things off. Standing on first, he noticed Billy wasn’t doing his smoking–six-gun routine now.

But Robbie followed with a grounder to short that the Red Sox turned into an easy double play. And Yancy Arroyo hit a pop fly to the first baseman to end the inning.

Fortunately for the Orioles, Robbie was pitching pretty well, too, matching Billy in scoreless innings.

It was still 0–0 in the fourth when Willie Pitts drew a walk on four pitches. Billy shook his head in disgust and stared hard at the umpire as Willie trotted down to first.

“This is it, guys!” Marty Loopus yelled. “Mr. Six-Gun is losing it!”

Willie promptly stole second, which seemed to rattle Billy even more. With Carlos Molina at the plate, Billy reared back and threw even harder. The result was another four-pitch walk. Jordy Marsh drew yet a third walk.

Now Billy Burrell was seething.

The Red Sox catcher, a pudgy kid named Dylan, walked out to the mound to try to settle him down.

“Get back behind the plate, fat boy,” Billy snarled, and Dylan quickly retreated.

Bases loaded. No outs. In the dugout, the Orioles came to life. They hooted and cheered and banged their bats against the bench as Connor strolled to the plate.

“Here we go, C!” Yancy Arroyo yelled.

“Wait for your pitch, Connor!” Coach Hammond shouted.

Connor stepped into the batter’s box. Slowly he dug one spike into the dirt and then the other. Then he tapped the far corner of the plate with his bat, assuring himself he could reach an outside pitch. What was it his dad always said? Act like you own the batter’s box. This is your office. Go to work.

Billy glared at him. He got the sign from his catcher, went into his windup, and threw a chin-high fastball.

Connor swung and missed.

Strike one.

“Too high!” Coach Hammond yelled.

Relax, Connor told himself. You’re too anxious. Make him throw strikes.

Billy’s next pitch was another fastball, shoulder-high this time. Connor couldn’t lay off this one, either.

Strike two.

What are you doing? Connor thought, stepping out of the box to regroup. You’re helping this guy, swinging at junk like that!

Out on the mound, Billy grinned. His confidence was back. He strutted around, glove tucked under one arm, rubbing the baseball with both hands.

Connor tapped the dirt from his spikes with the bat. He knew that every pitcher in the league considered it an accomplishment to strike him out. The last thing Connor wanted to do was give Billy an early Christmas present.

Connor took a couple of practice swings and stepped back in the box. He choked up on the bat and waved it menacingly, hands held high. Protect the plate, he told himself. Don’t let the team down.

The noise from the stands was deafening now. Little kids screamed and stomped on the bleachers. Mothers and fathers and aunts and uncles and grandparents were on their feet, clapping and cheering. Connor’s parents weren’t here, but they were in his head. Can’t let them down, either.

Billy went into his windup. The pitch started low, a breaking ball, and Connor started his swing, even as the ball dropped wildly at the last second. He tried to check, but it was too late.

“Strike three!” the umpire yelled.

Billy let out a whoop and punched the sky.

Which is when something inside Connor snapped.

This time he smashed his batting helmet on the ground and waved a fist at Billy. Then he stomped back to the dugout and smacked a water bottle with his bat. The bottle exploded against one wall, just missing Marty’s head.

“Coach, this is a warning!” the umpire shouted. “Any more of that, and he’s gone!”

Coach Hammond nodded. He stood at the railing of the dugout, chewing furiously on his gum, and glared at Connor. “You need to cool off,” he said quietly. He pointed to the end of the bench. “Take a seat—for the rest of the game.”

Like last time, Connor’s anger vanished in seconds. By the time he sat down, the first waves of remorse were already washing over him.

The chanting began seconds later.

It came from the Red Sox dugout, a loud, singsong noise that sounded like something from the crowd at the big international soccer matches he’d seen on TV.

“PSY-CHO SULL-EE!” went the chant. “PSY-CHO SULL-EE!”

Connor could feel the tears coming. He bent down and pretended to tie his spikes so no one could see his face.

But the chant continued, now even louder than before. “PSY-CHO SULL-EE! PSY-CHO SULL-EE!"

Somehow, he managed to cheer when Robbie Hammond, the next batter, doubled to left on a 3-and-2 count to drive in three runs.

Billy Burrell was so frustrated that he grabbed the front of his jersey and began growling and tearing at it with his teeth, something the Orioles had never seen before.

“And they’re calling you psycho?” Marty Loopus said. “Get a load of Dog Boy out there.”

But there was no cheering up Connor. He spent the rest of the game with a sick feeling in his stomach.

When it was over and the Orioles had won, 4–1, he lined up to slap hands with the other team. Billy smirked as he passed him. So did a few of the other Red Sox.

“Check the scoreboard, boys,” Jordy said. “I’m pretty sure you guys lost.”

“We’ll see you again in the playoffs,” Billy said. “Maybe Mr. Meltdown here can play the whole game this time.”

Connor’s face got hot. He wheeled to confront Billy, but Jordy quickly stepped between them.

“Better hope he doesn’t play the whole game,” Jordy told Billy. “That hit he got almost tore your head off.”

Good ol’ Jordy, Connor thought. Always the first to defend him.

But he still felt terrible. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar figure with a camera bag walking toward him.

There was probably someone else in the entire world he wanted to see less than Melissa Morrow. But at the moment, he couldn’t imagine who that could be.

“Quite a temper you have there, hotshot,” she said.

“Don’t start, Melissa,” Connor said. “It’s been a rough day.”

Melissa smiled and watched the field empty as players and their parents headed to the parking lot. “Guess you heard the ‘Psycho Sully’ chant,” she said.

“Kind of hard to miss,” Connor said. He grabbed a water bottle and took a long drink, hoping it would soothe his stomach.

“Psycho Sully…” Melissa said. “Maybe that could be the headline on my story. Got some nice shots of you flipping out with your batting helmet, too.”

Connor groaned. Now he was feeling absolutely nauseated. For a moment, he wondered if he’d get sick right there.

Knowing Melissa, she’d take photos of that, too. And print them in the York Tattler. Or even worse, post them on the Internet.

Only not before giving another lecture on the First Amendment.