Eddie Murray Field was a shimmering green oasis in the center of town. It was a twenty-minute walk from Connor’s house, or a seven-minute bike ride if he really pushed it, which meant weaving in between stroller-pushing moms and terrorizing slow-moving senior citizens on the sidewalks as he zipped by.

The town fathers kept the field lush and manicured. Before every game, an old man named Gus Papa would lovingly rake the red clay base paths, smooth the pitcher’s mound, and line the batter’s boxes until they gleamed in the afternoon sun.

Connor thought it was about the most perfect place on earth. In fact, on certain days, when there was a breeze and the smell of hot dogs and popcorn wafted from the tiny concession stand and mixed with the smell of new-mown grass, he wondered if it wasn’t a little slice of heaven, too.

One day he had asked Mr. Papa why he took such meticulous care of the little field week in and week out. The old man had leaned on his rake and wiped the sweat from his eyes with a red handkerchief. “Well,” he’d said finally, “all three of my boys played ball here. That was almost fifty years ago, long before it was named for Eddie. And this field was good to them. Baseball helped them grow into fine young men. Guess it’s my humble way of giving back.”

Connor wondered if baseball had been different fifty years ago. He wouldn’t change anything about today. It was the Orioles versus the Yankees on this perfect field, on a perfect spring evening. About the only thing he’d change was not having his mom and dad in the stands. But his mom was working a double shift, and his dad was working on his résumé. Still, as he did every time he saw a baseball diamond, Connor could feel himself getting jacked up to play.

As usual, he was the first player to arrive. He jogged lightly across the outfield and then did some stretching, just the way the big leaguers did before a game at Camden Yards.

Soon players from both teams began trickling in. The Orioles gathered down the first-base line in front of their dugout and paired up to loosen their arms.

Willie spotted Connor and pointed an index finger at his own temple. “You’re chill today, right?” he said.

“Mr. Calm,” Connor said. He started to close his eyes and extend his palms, but Willie waved him off.

“Please,” he said, “not the swami thing.”

“Yeah, give that a rest, C,” said Jordy, who was playing catch with Carlos Molina.

Connor smiled. “You’re just jealous of my amazing new self-control,” he said. “Derived from the ancient secrets of Hindu mystics.”

“Now you sound like an infomercial,” Willie said.

The first two innings went by like a heavyweight boxing match, both teams feeling each other out. The Yankees took a 3–0 lead in the third inning on two walks, an error in center field by Yancy Arroyo, and a double off Robbie Hammond, who struggled with his control.

But the Orioles started a comeback in the bottom of the inning. Joey Zinno, their catcher, led off with a sharp single to right.

Marty Loopus, making a rare start, followed with his usual weak bouncer to the pitcher for the first out.

“He’s scared of me,” Marty said upon returning to the dugout.

“The pitcher’s scared of you?” Jordy said incredulously.

“Yep,” Marty said. “Won’t pitch to my power zone.”

“You have a power zone?” Yancy said.

“Sure,” Marty said. “Middle of the plate in. The whole league knows that.”

“The whole league knows that?” Jordy said.

The rest of the Orioles smiled and shook their heads as Marty pulled off his batting gloves and got a drink of Gatorade.

Willie kept things going with a walk, Carlos drove in a run with a single, and Jordy doubled in two runs to tie the score.

The Orioles dugout was a sea of noise now. One out, one on, and who was marching to the plate but Connor Sullivan.

Standing in the third-base coaching box, Coach Hammond called time-out. He jogged down the line for a conference with Connor.

“Pitcher’s getting tired,” Coach said. “Wait for your pitch and drive it.”

Connor nodded and walked back to the batter’s box. He knew that was Coach’s way of saying: permission granted to swing for the fences.

Usually, Coach Hammond didn’t want his players trying to hit home runs. It changed their swings, he said. Instead of a short, compact swing—the ideal—they’d develop a long, slow swing, trying to jack the ball out of the park. “Don’t worry about where it goes,” Coach always told them. “Just hit the ball somewhere. And hit it hard.”

On occasion, though, Coach would make an exception for Connor, who had a sweet swing and didn’t try to kill the ball. This obviously was one of those occasions.

Connor dug in against the Yankees pitcher, a kid named Georgie Rosario, who happened to be in his guitar class.

He fouled off a pitch, then looked at three outside pitches without moving the bat off his shoulder. He was waiting for his pitch. Three and one count. This isn’t rocket science, Connor thought. Georgie has to throw a strike now.

Georgie did. It was a belt-high fastball with not much on it. Connor turned on it perfectly and hit a long, soaring blast over the fence in left field.

Just like that, it was 5–3 Orioles. As their dugout exploded, Connor went into his home run trot and highfived Coach Hammond as he rounded third base.

“Sure!” said Marty, standing on the top step of the dugout with arms outstretched in exasperation. “They’ll pitch to his power zone!”

In the dugout, Connor happily accepted fist-bumps and backslaps from the rest of the Orioles. Not bad so far, he thought. Just keep your cool the rest of the way.

The Orioles were still clinging to a two-run lead in the fifth inning when the Yankees came to bat.

Mike Cutko came on in relief of Robbie and promptly walked the first two batters, then struck out the next two. Next up was the Yankees dangerous cleanup hitter, Jake Hiaasen.

Jake was a big kid, too—not as tall as Connor, but bigger in the chest and shoulders. During football season, he was a star running back for the Dulaney Jets, with a reputation for flattening would-be tacklers, whose eyes tended to widen when they saw Jake steaming toward them.

“Everybody back!” Coach Hammond yelled, motioning to his outfielders.

Marty was already so far back in right field he looked to be in a different zip code. Now he backed up even farther, until he was practically leaning against the fence.

Mike’s first two pitches were in the dirt, and Jake held up on both. The next was a fastball at the knees. Jake took a mighty cut, but topped the ball, hitting a slow bouncer to short.

Connor charged it and scooped the ball with two hands. The runners on first and second had gotten a nice jump, so Connor knew his only play was at first.

He planted his left foot and threw off-balance—and watched in horror as the ball sailed high over Jordy’s head, bouncing against the chain-link fence and rolling down the right-field line as two runs scored.

Now it was 5–5.

What happened next felt like a dream—or maybe more like a nightmare. Don’t do it! he told himself, but already he was screaming “No-o-o!” and tearing the glove off his left hand and sailing it high in the air over Willie’s head.

In a flash, the umpire bolted from behind home plate and tore off his mask. Pointing at Connor, he yelled, “That’s it, son! You’re outta here!”

Stomping across the first-base line, Connor snarled at Jordy: “You couldn’t jump any higher for that throw? My grandma could’ve caught that!”

Jordy’s shocked expression just made Connor angrier. Reaching the dugout, he picked up a bat and fired it angrily against the wall. It ricocheted and hit Robbie in the knee, but Robbie was too stunned to cry out in pain.

“CONNOR!” Coach Hammond barked. “That’s enough! Get your stuff and go home. I’ll call you in the morning.”

But Connor didn’t care about his bat or his glove or his equipment bag right now. He didn’t care about baseball, either. Like the ump said, he was outta there.

As he bolted from the dugout and ran to his bike, he could feel the tears coming. And this time there was no holding them back.

This time he had really screwed up.