It was a gorgeous spring day, the dreary rain of twenty-four hours earlier having given way to a dazzling blue sky and white puffy clouds that looked low enough to touch. Connor and his dad were outside painting the garage door when the black Ford pickup roared up the driveway, spraying gravel in all directions.

Connor took in the polished chrome, the fog lights, the Yosemite Sam “Back Off!” mud flaps, and the burly figure in sunglasses behind the wheel and instantly arrived at a conclusion: My life is over.

The driver’s-side door opened, and out stepped Coach Hammond. Connor saw that Coach had ditched his usual Windbreaker and khaki pants for his snappy off-duty coplook: baseball cap, polo shirt, jeans with a big, silver belt buckle, and snakeskin cowboy boots.

“Hi, guys,” Coach said cheerfully. “What’s going on here, a little father-son bonding project?”

“Hi, Ray,” his dad said. He glanced over at Connor. “Sunday afternoon, and my son’s baseball coach is visiting us instead of keeping America safe. This can’t be good.”

Connor could feel his heart race. His hands were starting to sweat, too.

Coach smiled broadly and clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, buddy,” he said, “think I could talk to your dad alone for a few minutes?”

Connor nodded blankly. He laid his paintbrush atop the can of white exterior latex at his feet and wiped his hands with a rag as the two men went inside. Then, feeling like he was moving in slow motion, he went into the backyard, picked up his glove, and began mindlessly firing balls at the bounce-back net.

Okay, he thought, I’m definitely getting kicked off the Orioles. Coach didn’t drive all the way over here to talk about the weather. Or about all the bad guys he’s tossed in the slammer.

No, Coach would come right to the point with his dad: “Bill, your son’s a head case. A certified nut job. His meltdowns are killing the team. I have to cut him loose.”

Five minutes went by, then ten, then fifteen. Connor could feel himself getting more and more anxious as he took ground balls off the bounce-back, then line drives, then fly balls.

From time to time, he stole a glance at the sliding glass door and saw the two men sitting at the kitchen table, talking. Actually, Coach was doing all the talking. His dad was doing all the listening, occasionally shaking his head.

Connor groaned inwardly. That head-shaking was not a good sign. He could almost see tiny puffs of steam coming out of his dad’s ears, like in Road Runner cartoons, when Wile E. Coyote was outsmarted by that crazy bird.

More time went by. The waiting was killing Connor now.

He thought back to a movie he’d seen a few weeks earlier. It was about an English nobleman in the nineteenth century who was falsely accused of a crime and thrown into a dungeon, where he spent hours wondering if they were going to hang him or shove him in front of a firing squad. Connor could relate to the feeling. The English nobleman eventually escaped, but there didn’t appear to be any way out of this mess for Connor.

Finally, the sliding glass door opened and his dad shouted: “Connor, come on in here.”

Connor fired one more ball against the bounce-back and jogged to the back door. Then he slowed and thought: Why am I hustling? Who rushes to his own execution?

When he got to the kitchen table, his dad and Coach Hammond had big mugs of coffee in front of them. Both men looked grim as Connor took a seat. No one said anything for a few seconds.

Finally his dad cleared his throat. “Ray filled me in on your latest temper tantrums. And the league suspension.”

Connor started to say something in his own defense, but Coach held up his hand. “I didn’t come here to snitch, Connor,” Coach said. “That wasn’t my intention.”

Connor nodded, immediately thinking, Here it comes. Bye-bye baseball. The room suddenly seemed very still. Very warm, too.

“I’m disappointed in you, son,” his dad said. “Didn’t we just talk about this the other day?”

Connor’s mouth was so dry, he felt like reaching over and taking a swig of his dad’s coffee. But he’d probably end up spitting it across the table, like a sitcom character who’d tasted something weird. And that wouldn’t exactly earn him any points with the two men.

“Coach seems to feel there’s something bothering you,” his dad said in a gentler tone. “I told him things have been a little tense around here. So you didn’t tell Coach I lost my job?”

Connor shook his head.

“Well, he knows now,” his dad continued. “I never wanted that to be a big secret. Like I told you: Lots of people have lost jobs in this economy. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Connor looked at Coach, who nodded in agreement.

“Is that what’s been bothering you, buddy?” his dad said. “You never lost your temper like this before. Your mom and I were so proud of how you—”

Connor couldn’t hold back any longer. Now it all came pouring out: how scared he was that his dad might not find another job; how there never seemed to be enough money to do the fun things they used to do as a family; how worried his mom and Brianna were all the time; how the news on TV was always about the high unemployment rate; how Dana Petrillo’s dad had been out of work a year now and still couldn’t find anything….

His dad came around the table and wrapped his arms around him, but still Connor couldn’t stop, he’d been carrying this inside for so long.

“I heard…when the two of you were talking the other night…Mom said we could lose the house,” he said through tears. “I don’t want…I needed something to go right…and when I messed up, I got so mad….”

“It’s all right, buddy,” his dad said, rocking him gently. “We’re not losing this house—or anything else.”

Connor didn’t know how long he sat there blubbering. A minute? Two? Finally he straightened up and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He was embarrassed to have Coach see him cry. Although, what difference did it make now? Coach would probably never want to see him again, anyway.

“Connor, can I tell you something?” Coach said now in a soft voice. “I know exactly what you’re going through. Your dad, too. See, I was laid off once. Years ago, before I became a crime-fighting superhero.”

Connor managed a weak smile as he tried to imagine Coach in your basic superhero costume: tights, knee-high boots, cape, maybe a mask. It wasn’t a pretty picture.

“One minute I’m a truck driver for a parcel delivery service,” Coach continued; “the next minute the boss is handing me a severance check and saying, ‘Don’t bother coming in Monday.’ Robbie and his sister Jackie were babies at the time. Mary was pregnant with Ashley.”

Connor was hanging on every word now, fascinated to learn that Coach had ever been anything but a cop.

“At first you think it’s the end of the world,” Coach said. “But it’s not. You have to tighten your belt for a while, go without a few things, but you also have to stay optimistic. Nasty surprises like this have a way of turning out for the best. Look at me—if it hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have joined the police force. Your dad’s a good man. He won’t be out of work much longer.”

“Got two interviews lined up right now,” his dad said, patting Connor’s arm. “And both are promising.”

Connor was starting to feel better. Just talking about this after so many months was a relief. Then he looked at Coach and felt his spirits sag. What would he do without baseball, the game he lived for, the best game in the whole world?

Coach seemed to be reading his mind. “You want to know if I’m kicking you off the Orioles.” He propped his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “To be honest, I thought seriously about doing just that. But I wanted to talk to your dad first, see what was going on. And I’m glad I did.”

He leaned forward. “Connor, you and your family are going through a rough time. But losing your temper on the baseball field won’t make things better at home—you know that, right?”

Connor just hung his head, afraid to hear more.

“You’ve been under a lot of stress. It explains why you haven’t been yourself lately. So I’m willing to give you another chance.”

“Yes!” Connor said, jumping up. He let out a whoop. “Thanks, Coach!”

Coach quickly held up both hands. “But here’s the deal,” he said. “One more blowup, and you’re off the team for good. And next time there’ll be no discussion about it. Understand?”

Connor nodded happily and looked at his dad, who was smiling now.

“First thing you have to do is apologize to your teammates, especially Jordy,” Coach said. “But I have a feeling you’ll be just fine from now on.” He stood and took his coffee mug over to the sink. Then he smiled.

“Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me,” he said, “I’m off to work. Bet the bad guys are quaking in fear already.”

While Connor’s dad walked Coach to the door, Connor slumped forward and put his head down on the table. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so tired—or so relieved.

Coach was giving him one more chance. This time he really couldn’t blow it.