The carnival was a jumble of bright lights, loud noises, and exotic smells as Robbie and Marty walked along the packed midway and stared up at the giant spinning Ferris wheel illuminated against the night sky.

It was five days after the Blue Jays game and the Orioles were visiting the carnival as a team. They were even wearing their uniform jerseys. The whole thing was Coach Hammond’s idea.

“It’ll be fun,” he had explained to the Orioles at their last practice. “Something we can all do together. You know, to promote team unity.”

“Team unity,” Robbie chuckled to himself now. “That’s a good one.”

From the moment they had walked through the front gate, most of the Orioles had made it clear they had no intention of hanging out with one particular teammate, a certain short, squat, wild-throwing coach’s kid who was killing them on the mound.

Each time Robbie tried to join a conversation, the other guys ignored him. And they made sure to walk far enough ahead of him to limit mingling. Even Joey seemed eager to avoid him.

The only one hanging with Robbie now was Marty—good ol’ Marty, he thought gratefully, as faithful as a Labrador retriever. Bringing up the rear of this Orioles posse, with their arms around each other’s waists, were Robbie’s mom and dad, serving as the dutiful, if clueless, chaperones.

“Isn’t this great?” his dad said. “I think the team’s really enjoying this outing.”

“Oh, it’s great, all right,” Robbie said, looking at Marty and rolling his eyes.

“Let me know if anyone wants to get owned in that basketball game,” Mary Hammond said, smiling. “You know, where you shoot the big ball through the tiny hoop? I’m a whiz at that.”

“Okay, Mom,” Robbie said, grabbing Marty by the shoulder and steering him to the food booths. “Uh, we’re gonna get something to eat. We’ll catch up to you.”

The two boys wandered through a maze of vendors selling fried dough, french fries, funnel cakes, sausage and peppers, barbecue chicken, pulled pork sandwiches, and much more. Finally, Robbie stopped at a booth covered with red, white, and blue bunting.

“A corn dog, dude?” Marty said. “Seriously? That’s what you’re eating?”

“Oh, listen to Mr. Weird Food Lover,” Robbie said. “What are you having? Hummus-on-a-stick?”

Marty sighed and shook his head. “Robbie, Robbie, Robbie…I’m disappointed in you,” he said. “Fine, go ahead and get your corn dog. With its suspect ingredients. And bland cornmeal batter. And ho-hum taste. Then meet me at that table over there. Be right back.”

Robbie sat happily devouring his treat until his friend returned a few minutes later clutching a Styrofoam container. He opened it to reveal a thin whitish slab of something—Pork? Chicken? It was hard to tell—topped with what appeared to be herbs and spices.

Robbie stared at it for several seconds. “Okay,” he said at last, “you got me. What is that?”

Marty beamed and tore off a piece and popped it in his mouth. “Catfish,” he said between bites. “They wanted to deep-fry it, of course. It’s practically the law at carnivals, right? Everything has to be deep fried? Except I told ’em mine had to be broiled.”

Robbie was incredulous. “Catfish, Marty?” he said. “What are you, fifty years old? What kid goes to the carnival to eat catfish?”

“A worldly and discerning one, dude,” Marty said, munching away. “A kid far more intelligent and mature than his peers. I know that hurts. But deal with it.”

They finished eating and quickly caught up to the rest of the Orioles. Robbie sighed as he watched them stop to shoot baskets at the tiny hoops, his mom shooting along with them and trash-talking nonstop.

“Don’t let it bother you,” Marty said.

“Don’t let what bother me?”

“The juvenile antics of certain people,” Marty said, nodding at his teammates. “You don’t want to hang with them anyway. Not when they’re calling you…no, never mind.”

Robbie turned to look at him. “When they’re calling me what?”

Marty pretended to zip his mouth shut. “My bad,” he said. “Forget it. Should have never brought it up.”

Robbie narrowed his eyes and said, “If you don’t tell me, I’ll strangle you. Right here. In front of all these people. Think about it: you’ll never eat catfish at the carnival again.”

Marty gulped and looked away. “Well, if you’re going to get an attitude…” he said. “But it’s not nice, what they’re calling you. Might be too much for a kid to handle. You could be in therapy for years.”

“If you don’t tell me,” Robbie growled, “I’ll be in prison for years. For murdering you.”

“Fine,” Marty said with a shrug. “Their new nickname for you is Ball Four.”

Robbie winced and gazed over at his teammates, laughing and high-fiving as they launched shots at the absurdly tiny hoops.

“Okay, that one hurts,” he said. “Guess you can’t blame them. I’ve definitely thrown a lot of ball fours.”

Marty nodded sympathetically and clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Just leave me out of it when you talk with the therapist,” he said.

For the next forty-five minutes, the Orioles wandered the midway playing whatever games they came across: the water gun race, the ring toss around the rubber duckie, the softball toss into ten-gallon milk cans, etc.

Finally they arrived at the baseball throw. It consisted of a canvas backdrop painted with a cheesy image of a batter standing menacingly at home plate with his bat cocked. Behind him crouched a catcher offering a target with his upraised mitt. The object was to throw the ball into a hole cut in the mitt.

When he spotted the Orioles in their jerseys, the grizzled old man working the booth seemed to light up.

“WHAT DO WE HAVE HERE?” he said in a booming voice. “A GEN-U-INE BASEBALL TEAM? STEP RIGHT UP, FELLAS! THREE THROWS FOR A DOLLAR. ONE BALL IN THE HOLE WINS A PRIZE!”

Robbie and Marty hung back. One by one, the rest of the Orioles stepped up to test their skill. Willie, Jordy, and Connor, the players with the best arms on the team, watched their throws sail high and bang harmlessly into the canvas. Joey, Yancy, and Gabe slowed down their throws and saw them land too low. Mike tried aiming his throw as if he were tossing a dart at a dartboard, earning hoots of derision from his teammates.

No one even came close to hitting the hole.

“Game’s a rip-off, man,” Willie grumbled.

“Yeah,” Jordy said. “Look how small that hole is!”

Hearing this, the old guy cackled. “ONE IN IS ALL IT TAKES!” he cried. “WHO’S GONNA BE OUR FIRST WIN-NAH?”

He pointed a bony finger in Robbie’s direction and shouted, “YOU THERE! YOU LOOK LIKE A PITCHER! STEP RIGHT UP, SON! LET’S SEE WHAT YOU CAN DO!”

Robbie froze and glanced around. Everyone was staring at him. He spotted his mom and dad looking on with bemused smiles.

“Me?” Robbie said. “Oh, no, I…no, thanks.”

He started to walk away.

Then he heard it.

“No, not ol’ Ball Four,” Willie cracked. “He’d be low and outside every time.”

Robbie stopped dead in his tracks as the rest of the Orioles snickered. He turned slowly and stared hard at Willie. Then he walked up to the old man, pulled a dollar from his pocket, and tossed it on the counter.

“Three, please,” Robbie said.

When the balls were put in front of him, he paused to stare at Willie again. Then he fired one ball after another at the target—WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!—seemingly without aiming.

All three balls shot cleanly through the hole.

As Marty whooped, the rest of the Orioles gaped in astonishment. The old man gave an appreciative whistle and handed Robbie a small, purple stuffed monkey.

“LOOK AT THAT!” the old man bellowed. “SEE HOW EASY IT IS, FOLKS? STEP RIGHT UP NOW! WHO’S NEXT?”

Robbie turned to leave, but Willie stepped in front of him.

“You’re so freakin’ lucky,” he said in a low voice. “You couldn’t do that again in a million years.”

Robbie smiled grimly and nodded. “Somehow, I knew you’d say that,” he said. He fished another dollar from his pocket and held up three fingers. The old man happily handed him the balls.

Robbie shot one last look at Willie. Then he turned and threw all three balls even harder than the first time.

Again, all three found the hole.

From behind him, he could hear his mom and dad cheer and Marty cry, “That’s my man!” When Robbie turned around, he saw that the rest of the Orioles looked stunned.

“FOLKS, MAYBE WE MADE THIS GAME TOO EASY!” the old man shouted. “STEP RIGHT UP! ONE IN MEANS A WIN! IF THE BOY HERE CAN DO IT, SO CAN YOU!”

From behind the counter, he pulled out a yellow stuffed giraffe. It was much bigger than the purple stuffed monkey. But Robbie waved him off.

“I’m not through yet,” he said firmly. He handed the old man another dollar and said, “Three more, please.”

By now a crowd had gathered, and the rest of the Orioles, buzzing with excitement, were pressed in around Robbie. This time, he took the three balls and backed up until he was ten feet farther from the target.

“No way!” Willie said. “From that far away? That’s crazy!”

“If you say so,” Robbie said calmly.

He looked up at the night sky and saw that the stars had come out. He took a deep breath and looked down again, eyes locked on the target. Now he went into a full windup, turned, kicked, and fired. WHAM!

The ball disappeared into the hole.

He went through the same routine two more times—WHAM! WHAM!—making sure to follow through the way he would in a game.

Each time, the ball shot through the hole.

Now the Orioles erupted, cheering and high-fiving each other and clapping him on the back. The old man looked irritated. From the top shelf of the booth, he pulled down a giant stuffed panda bear and shoved it at Robbie.

“Kid,” he muttered, “I’ve been doing this for twenty-five years. Never seen nothin’ like what you just did.”

Robbie smiled and gave the thumbs-up sign to his mom and dad. With the Orioles chanting, “ROB-BIE! ROB-BIE!” he held the panda over his head, as if it were a championship trophy.

He went over to Willie, who still appeared to be in shock.

“Here,” Robbie said, thrusting the panda in his arms. “A little present from Ball Four. Hope you enjoy it.”

Then he turned and walked away, with Marty running after him.