There was a note on the kitchen counter when Robbie, Ashley, and their dad arrived home that evening. Robbie and his dad were exhausted from practice. Ashley, on the other hand, seemed hyper after spending the afternoon at her friend’s house.

The note read:

Reminder: Big gig tonight for Catering by Mary. You’re on your own for dinner. I know this is an awesome responsibility. Don’t blow it!

Love,

Mom

“No problem,” Ray Hammond said, reaching for the phone. “This is why they invented pizza. Pepperoni or sausage?”

“Pepperoni, sausage, and extra cheese,” Robbie said.

“Ewww!” Ashley said. “Gross!” Then she smiled. “Actually, it doesn’t sound bad.”

Their dad grinned. “The Heart Attack Special,” he said. “Good choice. I can feel my arteries clogging already.”

Robbie couldn’t stop thinking about the one-armed boy. The kid had been a blur racing to make the catch. And what hand-eye coordination! Then there was the cool behind-the-back toss to Jordy—now there was some serious swagger! It was like the cherry on top of an ice cream sundae. Plus the kid had seemed so confident—something Robbie definitely wasn’t right now.

He wondered what had happened to the kid’s arm. Car accident? Power tool mishap? Or some horrible disease that had required amputation to save his life?

And why had the boy run away when Robbie approached him? He certainly didn’t seem ashamed of having one arm. No, there was nothing in his bearing that suggested the kid was anything but self-assured, to the point of being cocky.

Was the kid not supposed to be at the field that day? Or did he suddenly realize he was due somewhere else when Robbie trotted over to talk to him?

The more Robbie thought about the kid, the more questions leaped to his mind.

Did the kid have a family? Did he go to school in the area? Did he play baseball? Robbie knew there were kids with disabilities who did all sorts of amazing things in sports. Just the other day he’d watched a video of a one-armed boy in California with a blazing fastball and killer curve who was the best pitcher in his league and the talk of the whole community.

This kid who had dazzled the Orioles yesterday—he was an athlete too. Robbie was sure of it. Everything about the kid said he was a baller—or had been at some point in his life. You didn’t move like that, didn’t make a catch like that, if you’d never played the game.

It would be like me strapping on skates, dashing the length of the rink with the puck, and scoring on some ridiculous slap shot when I’ve never played hockey in my life, Robbie thought. Uh-uh. This kid knew baseball. Just the way he handled the ball told you that.

And what about that mysterious smile the kid had flashed as he ran away? What was that all about? Was that his way of saying, Ha, ha, forget it, kid. You don’t have a prayer of catching me?

No, Robbie didn’t think so. He couldn’t swear to it, but there almost seemed to be something sad about that smile. Almost like the kid was saying, Sorry, but I can’t talk right now.

The pizza arrived thirty minutes later, delivered by a heavyset man who was wheezing after climbing the five steps to the front door.

“Now there’s a guy who should probably cut back on his own product,” Ray Hammond said after the man left. Laughing, Robbie and Ashley agreed.

They ate on the back deck. It was cooler now; the sun was beginning to set, and a soft breeze rippled through the garden as they hungrily attacked their meal.

“That boy at practice today…” Robbie said after a few minutes.

“What boy?” Ashley said suspiciously.

Quickly, Robbie filled her in on the one-armed boy’s appearance.

“Still thinking about him, huh?” their dad said. “I can see why. Pretty impressive catch. Even for someone with both arms.”

Robbie nodded. “He’s a hero, too. He might have saved that little kid’s life.”

“You’re always so dramatic,” Ashley said, rolling her eyes.

“No, Robbie could be right,” their dad said. “The ball was sure tracking that way.”

“I wonder what it’s like,” Robbie said. “Having only one arm…?”

His dad reached for another slice and shook his head. “Can’t be easy,” he said. “But people have overcome disabilities since the beginning of time. A guy with one arm even played in the major leagues.”

“How can a one-armed person play baseball?” Ashley said. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, it happened,” Ray Hammond said. “Pete Gray. An outfielder. Played for the old St. Louis Browns during World War Two. Google it if you don’t believe me.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Ashley said, taking a bite of her pizza.

“What happened to his arm?” Robbie asked.

“He fell off a farmer’s wagon when he was a little kid,” his dad said. “Got caught in the wagon’s spokes. His arm had to be amputated above the elbow.”

Robbie and Ashley winced. Robbie tried to imagine how terrifying that must have been for little Pete Gray, or Petey, or whatever they called him. One minute you’re a perfectly healthy kid, the next minute they’re wheeling you into a hospital, knocking you out, and sawing off your arm.

If they even had hospitals back then.

And anesthesia.

Robbie shuddered just thinking about it.

“Then there was a guy who pitched in the majors with only one hand,” Ray Hammond said.

“Okay, that did it!” Ashley said. “Now you’re just telling stories.”

“Nope. His name was Jim Abbott. Pitched for a bunch of teams—Angels, Yankees, Red Sox, maybe a couple more. This was in the 1980s and 1990s. You should’ve seen this guy. Unbelievable.”

“But what if they hit it back to him?” Robbie asked. “How did he—?”

“He was a lefty,” his dad said. “Kept the glove on the end of his right arm. Soon as he pitched, he slipped the glove on his left hand to field the ball. Then he’d hold the glove against his body, grab the ball, and throw the runner out. He was so smooth doing it, too.”

Robbie and Ashley stared disbelievingly at their dad.

“Bet if you go on YouTube, you’ll find video of him pitching,” Ray Hammond said. “He was an inspiration to a lot of folks.”

“I gotta see that!” Ashley said, jumping from her seat. “Okay if I use the computer now? I’m all finished. How can you two eat so much? That’s so gross!”

Robbie and his dad smiled at each other as she went inside. They could hear her bounding down the stairs to the family room.

“Here’s one more one-armed story for you,” his dad said. “Not a ballplayer, though. The drummer for the band Def Leppard.”

“A one-armed drummer?” Robbie said.

“He had a special drum set custom-made for him. And he taught himself to play. I saw him in concert once. He was great.”

The sun was low on the horizon and crickets were beginning to chirp. Ray Hammond glanced at the pizza box and sighed with contentment. Only one small slice remained, along with four or five forlorn crusts that looked as if they had been gnawed on by tiny woodland creatures.

“I’m stuffed,” his dad said. “I don’t think I can move. You might have to roll me inside.”

“As long as I don’t have to throw you,” Robbie said, grinning. “You know how that would go. Low and outside.”

Ray Hammond shook his head. “Not for much longer,” he said. “I got a feeling the old Robbie Hammond is about to make a comeback.”

“That would be nice,” Robbie said as they both stood. “Now all I want to know is when.”

“Hopefully soon,” his dad said. “Because you’re pitching Friday. Against the Yankees.”

Robbie looked at his dad and gulped hard.

He felt a strange gurgling in his stomach now.

And it wasn’t from the pizza.