The Orioles had just begun their warm-ups when a caravan of gleaming SUVs snaked up the long winding road next to Eddie Murray Field and pulled into the parking lot. Out spilled a dozen boys wearing immaculate pinstriped uniforms and navy-blue caps, laughing and high-fiving each other as their coaches and parents hurried along behind with the equipment.

It could only mean one thing: the Yankees were in the house.

The first-place, undefeated Yankees.

“Un-freaking-believable,” Jordy said as the Yankees paraded past, headed to their dugout.

The Orioles had never seen anything like it.

Not only were the Yankees wearing the brightest uniforms anyone had ever seen, they also wore matching warm-up jackets and matching spikes and carried matching gear bags.

It got worse. They were also wearing matching white puka-shell necklaces, which the Orioles discovered when the Yankees pulled off their jackets.

Willie couldn’t resist. “Aren’t we accessorized today!” he shouted. “Who are you guys, the Barbie Doll Yankees?”

As the Orioles cracked up, a few of the Yankees looked over and glared. Another, a tall boy with red hair and thick shoulders, stepped toward Willie.

“You’re about to find out who we are, shorty,” the kid said.

“Oooooh!” the Orioles said in unison.

“Yo, easy, Red!” Willie said. “It’s just that you’re all looking so sharp! Matching boxers, too?”

Now the other boy’s face turned as red as his hair. “You need to shut it. I don’t know why you think you can even talk to us. When was the last time you guys won a game?” he shouted. “Oh, that’s right. That would be never, wouldn’t it?”

“Okay,” Willie said, shrugging and turning back to the Orioles. “I got nothing for that one.”

Neither did anyone else. The redheaded kid smiled triumphantly and went back to his team.

By game time the Yankees’ parents had set up camp down the right field line, where they sat under Yankees sun umbrellas and Yankees tents while fishing water bottles and soda cans from Yankees coolers.

They had even set up a Yankees misting station where the players could go to cool off, even though it was a cloudy day and not overly warm.

“A misting station!” Jordy said, staring out at the scene in wonder.

“Bet it has a flat-screen TV, too,” Connor said.

“And probably a Jacuzzi,” Mike said.

When the Yankees took the field to start the game, the Orioles made yet another discovery, this one more than a little unsettling: the big redhead was on the mound.

And throwing hard.

“Mad hard,” Willie said, watching from the on-deck circle as the kid warmed up. “Naturally, the biggest, meanest kid on the other team, the one I tick off with my big mouth, turns out to be their flame-throwing all-star pitcher. It never fails.”

“Yeah, thanks a lot, Willie,” Joey said as the rest of the Orioles nodded somberly.

“Big deal!” a voice cried.

It was Marty. He leaped off the bench, walked to the middle of the dugout, and pointed at Robbie.

“So what if they have Big Red?” Marty said. “We got our own flame-throwing intimidator, and his name is Robert W. Hammond. My man right here.”

“Your middle name is W?” Joey said, looking at Robbie. “That’s it? Just an initial?”

Marty shook his head wearily and massaged his temple with both thumbs, as if fending off a massive headache.

“The W stands for William, you idiot!” he said as the rest of the Orioles chuckled. “And you witnessed his skill the other night at the carnival. No, my man is going to be the best pitcher this league has ever seen. Once he gets past some, uh, minor control issues.…”

“Marty,” Robbie said, “why don’t we just—”

“Please, Robbie,” Marty said, holding up a hand. “Let me handle this.”

He turned back to the Orioles, who were grinning now, amused by the performance.

“And that’s not all,” Marty continued. “My man is going out there today, and he will match Big Red pitch for pitch. He’ll whistle fastballs past the Yankees, snap off curves, and drop changeups that’ll have them drilling themselves into the batter’s box!”

“Marty…” Robbie said, but again there was the hand.

“So we are not going to worry about big, fat, ugly Red over there!” Marty thundered. “Because, gentlemen, Robert William Hammond has our backs. He will not fail us. The legend begins today.”

With that he plopped down next to Robbie, smacked him on the thigh, and said loudly, “Now go get ’em, big guy.”

Robbie glared at him. “Are you out of your mind?!” he hissed. “Could you possibly put more pressure on me?”

But Marty just smiled serenely. It was, Robbie realized, typical Marty. Sometimes you didn’t know whether to hug him or choke him.

Predictably, Big Red’s stuff was nasty.

Willie barely got around on a low fastball and grounded out meekly to first base. Joey struck out on four pitches. Jordy tried to work the count and slow down the big right-hander’s momentum by stepping out after every pitch. But eventually he went down on a 3–2 fastball that just caught the outside of the plate.

Three up, three down for the O’s. Just like that.

As he strutted off the mound at the end of the inning, Big Red turned to the Orioles dugout and snarled, “Yo, Snore-ioles! I’ll be bringing it like that all game!”

This time, no one said anything back. Marty tried, but Willie lunged and clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Shhh, this guy’s too good,” Willie whispered as Marty, bug-eyed, struggled to speak. “Don’t get him any more riled up!”

As he warmed up with Joey, Robbie was pleasantly surprised to find his pitches actually going where he wanted them to—well, most of the time. And it carried over to the real game.

The Yankees leadoff hitter popped out to Jordy at first. Robbie fell behind 3–0 to the next batter, but then grooved two strikes before the kid swung at an outside pitch and bounced out to Willie. And the next kid swung at a pitch headed for the dirt and hit a comebacker to the mound, which Robbie fielded easily for the third out.

Robbie knew he wasn’t throwing nearly as hard as he had in the old pre-Stevie days. But at least he was around the plate today, which felt like a major accomplishment. For the first time in weeks, he left the mound with a bounce in his step.

As the rest of the Orioles clapped him on the back and said, “Good job,” Marty made a beeline in from right field.

“Whoa, what happened there?” Marty said. “A psychological breakthrough? Has the Terrible Curse of Wildness been lifted?”

“Not sure,” Robbie said. “But how ’bout we do this? How ’bout we see if I can do it again next inning before you start yapping about that legend stuff?”

“Understood,” Marty said, pretending to zip his mouth. “Not another word. Don’t want to ruin the karma.”

“Yeah,” Robbie said, grinning. “Whatever you want to call it, don’t ruin it.”

It was another one-two-three inning for the Orioles at the plate, and Robbie felt like he was back on the mound in no time.

The Yankees cleanup hitter was due up. Curious to see who it was, Robbie looked over at their dugout. A massive head covered with a shiny blue helmet emerged first, followed by a pair of enormous shoulders and then the rest of the torso.

It was Big Red.

He sauntered to the on-deck circle, carrying a huge black bat, the biggest Robbie had ever seen. Staring at Robbie the whole time, he took three vicious cuts, swinging so hard the bat seemed to whistle as it cut through the air.

After Robbie’s last warm-up toss, Joey shuffled to the mound and pulled off his mask. “Just a suggestion,” he said. “But I would pitch this guy carefully. Very carefully.”

“Ya think?” Robbie said. He looked nervously at Big Red again. “Did he have those muscles when the game started?”

“I think they’re new,” Joey said. “Thought I saw him bench-pressing your dad’s car between innings.”

As Big Red dug in at the plate, Robbie took a deep breath. A thought occurred to him: Maybe the kid’s dumb. Maybe he’ll swing at junk.

His first pitch was low and outside. His second pitch was high and outside. But Big Red wasn’t chasing. With a smirk, he stepped out and took another vicious swing, eyes still locked on Robbie.

Okay, Robbie thought, what do I do now? He knew what his dad would say. You go right after the hitter. You challenge him. You don’t back down. Even with the semi-crappy fastball he’d been throwing? Yeah, even with that.

Robbie peered in for the sign from Joey. Fastball. He wound up, kicked high, and fired. Decent pitch, he thought, as the ball left his hand. Except now it was headed directly over the plate and Big Red’s eyes were lighting up and Robbie was already cringing.

Big Red swung. There was a flash of black and then the muffled sound of metal meeting horsehide—pingggg!

Robbie whipped around in time to see the ball soaring over the left field fence until it was just a tiny dot in the sky.

He wondered if it would ever come down.

And if so, where.

Maybe someplace in Montana, he decided.