The phone rang thirty minutes after he got home from the game, as he knew it would.

Connor looked at the caller ID screen: RAYMOND HAMMOND. Coach was not the sort of person who took long to address matters when they needed to be addressed. Connor knew this was one of the reasons why Coach had become a cop. When you see a thug knock down some poor old lady and run off with her purse, you don’t stand there analyzing the situation. You take action. That was Coach.

Connor waited a few rings, hoping for a miracle.

Maybe there would be a sudden massive disruption of the telecommunications systems up and down the East Coast.

Maybe it would be caused by a solar flare, or the laser sabotage of a satellite in outer space by an evil madman intent on world domination, as he’d seen in an old James Bond movie.

Or maybe Coach’s phone would suddenly burst into flames due to some horrible internal malfunction and be unusable for days.

Ha, fat chance! He finally picked up on the fifth ring.

“Connor?” Coach said. “It’s got to stop, son.”

“I know, Coach. I’m sorry.”

“Two games in a row,” Coach said.

“Yes, sir. I’m not proud of what I did.”

“I wanted you to cool off before we talked.”

“Thanks, Coach. I’m cool. It won’t happen again.”

There was silence on the other end.

Finally, Coach said: “This isn’t like you. Anything bothering you, son? Everything okay at home, school, that sort of thing?”

“I’m fine, Coach.”

“You know you can always talk to your mom and dad. They’re good people. The best. You can always talk to me, too.”

“I know. But everything’s okay, honest.”

The truth was, Connor didn’t know anything. Two hours earlier, he was sure he had his temper under control, and then—Bam! He suddenly went psycho. Now his heart seemed to be beating wildly.

“Connor, we can’t have any more of these blowups,” Coach said. “You’re running out of chances. Understand what I’m saying?”

“Absolutely, Coach.”

“If it happens again, I’ll have to take some action.”

Take some action. There it was again. Oh, Coach would definitely take action, all right.

Connor hung up the phone. His stomach was in knots. Now he felt like he could hardly catch his breath.

Still in his Orioles uniform, he ran out the back door, dropped to all fours in the cool grass, and began doing push-ups. Up-down, up-down, up-down…He wasn’t keeping count, just banging them out as fast as he could, making them hurt, keeping his legs straight and his shoulders square, and dropping all the way until his chest brushed the grass.

It was twilight now. Upstairs, a light winked on in his parents’ bedroom. It was his mom—she must have just come home from work.

Still, Connor didn’t stop. Up-down, up-down, up-down as he tried to block out thoughts. Jerkwad…why’d I…wish I’d …Ten more minutes, then twelve, then fifteen.

Finally, he slumped to the ground in exhaustion, his chest heaving, his shoulders aching, the sweat glistening on his face.

He felt better, he decided. But only in the way you’d feel better if someone was whacking you with a stick and they finally stopped.

Now there was no doubt: one more blowup, and Coach would kick him off the team. For good.