The Orioles were gathered around the backstop of a dusty field across town, waiting for Ray Hammond to finish raking the batter’s box and tying down the bases. It was a hot, humid afternoon, and from beyond the thick stand of trees on the other side of the park they could hear the happy sounds of kids laughing and splashing. Through the branches they caught an occasional glimpse of shimmering blue water and a bone-white diving board.

“Ah, a unique form of torture,” Marty had said when they first arrived. “Holding a practice in ninety-five-degree heat next to a community pool.”

At the moment, though, the topic of conversation among the Orioles was: how much do we stink?

And the consensus opinion seemed to be: we stink a whole lot.

“Now other teams are calling us the Snore-ioles,” Jordy said, listlessly fanning himself with his cap.

“Or instead of the O’s, they call us the No’s,” Connor said.

“Or the Zeros,” Joey said. “Heard that one in school today.”

Willie banged the handle of his bat in the sun-baked dirt and spat out a mouthful of sunflower seeds.

“Guys, we’re oh-and-nine!” he said. “Oh-and-freaking-nine! What do you expect them to call us? The Orioles: a legendary baseball powerhouse?”

“Anything but the Zeros,” Joey said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. That’s just…wrong.”

For a moment, no one spoke. A warm breeze rustled through the trees. The sounds wafting from the pool seemed even louder now.

“Here’s a question,” Mike said finally. “Has any team in this league ever gone a whole season without a win?”

“If anyone can do it,” Jordy said morosely, “we can.”

“There’s the fighting spirit, Jordy,” Willie said, shooting him a look. “There’s the old never-say-die attitude.”

“Wow,” Connor said. “Think about it! No wins for an entire season! That would majorly suck.”

“Maybe,” Marty said. “But maybe not. No, hear me out for a sec.”

He sauntered to the front of the group and held up his hands for attention. “Okay, imagine for a second that we’re the worst team ever,” he said. “Not just in the league, I mean in the whole history of organized baseball! We’re so bad we’re on SportsCenter. ESPN does a docudrama about us—that’s part documentary, part drama for you slow guys like Joey over there. Then, of course, someone makes a movie about us. And we all get to play ourselves in the movie! And suddenly we’re celebrities!”

He had a faraway look in his eyes now.

“From that point on, wherever we go, people say, ‘Look, it’s the Orioles, the world-famous losers! We want to party with you, dudes!’ Suddenly fans are hitting us up for autographs, buying us free meals, introducing us to hot chicks—just so they can hang out with us!”

He spread his arms wide, looked excitedly at his teammates, and said, “Wouldn’t that be so cool?”

Everyone stared at him in disbelief.

“Okay, fine,” Marty murmured, plopping down on the grass. “It was just a thought.”

“A really dumb thought,” Willie said.

“Really, really dumb,” Joey said. “Dumb to, like, the two hundredth power.”

“Whatever,” Marty said. “But ‘bad’ sells. I just watched a YouTube video of the worst dancer in the world. The guy gets ten thousand hits a month. He’s a big star now. I rest my case.”

Watching his buddy pout, Robbie found himself grinning. During the entire discussion, Robbie had kept reminding himself to keep his mouth shut. Now that the Orioles were being friendly to him again, still dazzled by his exploits at the carnival a few days ago, he didn’t want to say something stupid to tick them off.

Also, Robbie knew that part of the reason the Orioles were winless—no, the major reason they were winless—was because of his crappy pitching. No sense calling attention to that inconvenient fact, in case one of the Orioles were to stand up, point a finger at him, and scream, “YOU! YOU’RE WHY WE SUCK!”

Just then Ray Hammond called them together. He put down his rake and wiped his brow. “All right, it’s hot as blazes,” he said. “We’ll hit and call it a day. I’ll pitch. Willie, Jordy, and Connor, you’re up first. Everyone else shags balls.”

As the Orioles turned to go, Coach grinned. “Oh, one more thing,” he said. “I’m calling home-run derby. Everyone gets fifteen swings. Winner gets a giant snowball at the Snack Shack. My treat.”

The Orioles let out a cheer and ran off to get started. Soon they were having so much fun swinging out of their shoes they forgot about the oppressive heat. Connor was the early home-run king with four jacks, until Carlos topped him with five bombs, including a mammoth shot over the fence in dead-center field.

“I’ll probably regret this,” Coach said at one point. “Probably mess up your swings. But we have to live a little, right?”

Finally, Joey stepped into the batter’s box, the last hitter of the afternoon. Not far away, in a shady patch of grass behind first base, a dad sat next to a stroller with a toddler strapped into it. Every once in a while he pointed toward the Orioles and whispered to the child, as if giving him his first baseball lesson.

Wow, Robbie thought. How bored do you have to be to watch us practice? Be careful, mister. Watching the Zeros play might traumatize that kid for life.

Seconds later, something amazing happened.

On his very first swing, Joey ripped a vicious foul ball down the first base line. It was headed straight for the stroller. The Orioles gasped as one.

Suddenly there was a flash of movement in the shadows and a hand reached out and speared the ball. The hand belonged to a tall boy with long, floppy blond hair who appeared to be about thirteen.

The boy grinned and pointed at the startled father, as if to say, You owe me one, buddy. Saved your kid’s butt. Then he flipped the ball nonchalantly behind his back to Jordy, like what he’d just done was the easiest thing in the whole world.

But that wasn’t the most amazing thing.

The most amazing thing was this: the boy had only one arm.

“Did…you…see…that?” Willie said, wide-eyed with astonishment.

Robbie nodded uncertainly, still staring at the boy. “I…think so,” he said. “It was like something out of a movie.”

The boy wore a white T-shirt, baggy plaid shorts, and flip-flops. For the rest of Joey’s swings, he stood in the shade near the stroller, watching the Orioles intently.

As soon as practice was over, Robbie jogged over to him. Which was when the boy took off, running hard in his flip-flops, going faster than Robbie had ever seen a kid go.

“Hey, wait up!” Robbie yelled.

The boy looked back. For an instant, he seemed to smile. But he didn’t stop.

He ran past the Snack Shack, through the parking lot, and into the trees.

Then he was gone.