Robbie was the first player to arrive at practice. This was nothing unusual. Ray Hammond had long stressed the idea of punctuality to his three children. Only in Ray’s case, punctuality meant showing up at least a half-hour early for any appointment or function.

Arriving only fifteen minutes early actually meant you were late, according to him. And arriving on time meant you were very, very late. Robbie, Jackie, and Ashley had never quite gotten used to what they called DWT (Dad Weirdo Time), but none of them could recall ever being late for anything in their lives.

As soon as the black Ford pickup came to a stop, Robbie jumped out and anxiously scanned the field. He checked the backstop, then down the first base and third base lines.

No Ben.

He looked out toward center field and the old scoreboard behind the fence, then beyond to the trees that partially obscured the pool. But Ben was nowhere in sight.

Disappointed, Robbie reached into the truck bed and helped his dad unload the equipment bags that held the bases, the catcher’s gear, baseballs, and bats. They pulled out the cooler with the water bottles, too, and carried or dragged everything across the dusty field to one of the dugouts.

“Where you been?” a voice said.

It was Ben.

He sat at the far end of the dugout wearing an orange T-shirt, basketball shorts and flip-flops, and the same Orioles hat, the brim facing forward this time. On his left hand was a battered black glove.

“Ben!” Robbie said. “We weren’t sure you’d—”

Ben grinned nervously and looked at Robbie’s dad.

“Thought you might need someone to shag balls,” he said. “Y’know, during batting practice or something. But it’s cool if you don’t. I’ll get out of your way and watch from the stands.”

Ray Hammond smiled and put down his bag. “Nice to meet you, Ben,” he said. “Robbie told me a lot about you. We’d love to have you join us.” The coach peered at the boy’s feet. “But I’d prefer that you play in sneakers. Do you have—”

Robbie cut him off. “I’m sure it’ll be okay, just for today.” He gave his father a look that said, Don’t ruin this. “Right, Dad?”

Coach got the message. “Right, just for today. Why don’t you two go warm up?”

Ben’s face lit up. Robbie grabbed his glove and a ball, and the two boys jogged down the line to play catch.

Just as Robbie had suspected, Ben was a natural athlete. He threw with a smooth, practiced motion, the ball popping into Robbie’s glove with a loud whump! And Ben caught the ball effortlessly, too, guiding the glove easily, no matter where the throw reached him.

It was in-between his catch and throw that he struggled.

After every catch, he would place the glove under the stump of his right arm and then attempt to pull the ball out. It was an awkward, time-consuming movement. He fumbled with the exchange and dropped both the glove and the ball several times, appearing to grow frustrated.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Haven’t done this much. Practiced a little at home with my mom. Obviously, I don’t have it down yet.”

But Robbie didn’t mind. It was great to see Ben playing ball—any kind of ball—after all the kid had been through. And it was great to see the delighted look on his face as he became more and more comfortable popping the ball out of his glove for the return throw.

Soon the rest of the Orioles began arriving. Robbie introduced Ben to each of them. They crowded around him, obviously still in awe of what the one-armed kid had done at their last practice.

“Dude,” Joey said, “that catch of yours was SportsCenter stuff! Should’ve made their highlights!”

“We saw your wheels, too,” Willie said. “Wish you could be our designated base-stealer!”

“Uh, thanks,” Ben said, looking down, his face reddening.

“Yeah,” Jordy said, “even in flip-flops, you’re way faster than any of us.”

“In fact, you could run backward in those things and be faster than Marty,” Connor added as the rest of the Orioles cracked up.

“Ha, ha, ha, you guys are hysterical,” Marty said. He pushed his way through the other players until he was next to Ben.

“Mr. Ben Landrum,” he began, “let me just say how honored we are to have you visit our humble little practice. It’s certainly a privilege to be able to stand here and—”

Now the Orioles stuck their fingers in their mouths and made gagging sounds.

“Marty, ease up,” Robbie said. “He’s not the president of the United States.”

“Or the head of the Supreme Court,” Mike added.

“And if you saw my report card, you know I never will be,” Ben said, touching off more laughter.

“Oh?” Marty said. “An underachiever, eh? Well, if you ever need help with schoolwork, come to me. Don’t go to any of these losers. These guys couldn’t spell cat if you spotted them the C, the A, and the T.”

At this, the Orioles began booing and pummeling Marty with their gloves until he ran away to escape.

A moment later, Robbie’s dad looked at the knot of players and grinned. “Ben, what’re you doing, signing autographs over there?” he said. “Let’s go, guys. Leave him alone and go get loose so we can start practice.”

It turned out to be one of the best practices the Orioles had had all season. Even though the day was sunny, it was unseasonably cool for early June. And whether it was the seventy-degree temperature that was energizing them or simply Ben’s presence, the Orioles looked more focused than they had in weeks.

For his part, Ben was all over the field.

At first he watched the Orioles take infield for a few minutes. Then he stood behind Robbie and Mike on the sidelines, quietly observing as each threw twenty or so pitches to Joey, working on control. As Coach pitched batting practice, Ben shagged fly balls in the outfield, jogging easily in his flip-flops and making graceful basket catches of almost every ball hit to him.

“Dude’s played the game,” Willie said to Robbie at one point.

“Oh, yeah,” Robbie said. “He was giving Marty tips out there about positioning. And how to stand when the pitcher throws a certain pitch.”

Willie grunted. “That’s a good thing,” he said. “Marty needs all the tips he can get.”

“Now, now,” Robbie said. “Marty’s improving.…”

“You could have fooled me,” Willie said with a smirk. “Personally, my tip to the boy would be: Try lacrosse, you might like it.”

“You are a cruel, cruel kid, Willie Pitts,” Robbie said, trotting off the field. “Luckily, I don’t have to listen to this anymore. My turn to hit next.”

Forty-five minutes later, after all the Orioles had batted, Coach Hammond waved to the newest player.

“Ben!” he shouted. “You’re up!”

The boy’s eyes widened with surprise. Then he frowned and shook his head.

“Thanks, Coach!” he shouted. “I’m good!”

“Uh-uh,” Coach said, still waving. “You practice, you hit. That’s the rule.”

Reluctantly, Ben jogged in. He grabbed a bat and trudged to the plate, aware that all eyes were on him.

Holding the bat high, he took a few awkward practice swings and stepped in. Coach threw him a belt-high fastball. He swung viciously and missed. He whiffed on the next pitch and the next pitch and the one after that, too.

After swinging and missing the fifth pitch, Ben tomahawked the bat on the plate in frustration. The Orioles stole nervous glances at each other. Coach had a cardinal rule: no drama. Ever. No temper tantrums when things go wrong. No throwing gloves when a ground ball goes between your legs. No throwing bats when you strike out.

But all Coach said to Ben now was, “Relax. Take a deep breath. Nice level swing. You’ll make contact. Just like you used to.”

Which is exactly what happened.

It was nothing much, a routine grounder to second base that Willie gobbled up easily. But the Orioles could see the relief on Ben’s face. And after a few more pitches, he smoothed out his choppy, upward swing enough to lash a line drive.

When practice was over, Robbie and his dad watched as Ben and Marty ran to the outfield, throwing fly balls to each other and laughing as they tried to catch them behind their backs.

“Ben’s going to play ball again,” Robbie said quietly. “I just know he is.”

His dad nodded. “I think you’re right,” he said. “This season’s almost over. But maybe next year. Which wouldn’t be the worst thing. Give him a whole year to work on that move. You know, getting the ball out of the glove.”

He rubbed his chin for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face.

“In the meantime,” he continued, “we may have found ourselves a great assistant coach.”