Robbie felt as if he’d been slapped. Pathetic? Had Ben really used that word to describe his pitching?

Robbie could feel tears welling in his eyes—he was glad it was too dark for Ben to notice. No, it wouldn’t be cool for the Orioles new assistant coach to see him crying. Robbie knew his voice would be shaky, too. So he didn’t say anything, trying to get his emotions under control first.

“No offense,” Ben continued, and Robbie winced. Because whenever anyone started a sentence with no offense, it usually meant whatever followed was going to offend the other person, big-time. “But you were pretty awful out there. Is something wrong with your arm?”

More like my head, Robbie thought, choking back a sob.

Then it all came out, in a torrent of words he couldn’t stop if he tried.

Sitting there in the darkness, he told Ben all about last year’s all-star game. About how big and strong and confident Stevie Altman had looked as he stepped into the batter’s box. About the fastball that got away, the hardest pitch he had ever thrown. About how it crashed into Stevie’s batting helmet, right at the temple, and how Stevie had dropped as if he’d been shot.

Robbie’s voice was cracking now, and he was sniffling, too. But he didn’t care. After months of keeping all this inside, it felt good to let it out—especially to someone his own age.

He even told Ben about his recurring dream—okay, it was more like a nightmare—where the ball was headed straight toward Stevie’s head, and the boy didn’t even try to get out of the way. He just got this strange look on his face, closed his eyes, and mouthed silently, “Here it comes.”

Ben listened without interrupting. When Robbie finished, the only sound was the low buzzing of the night’s insects.

“Wow,” Ben said finally. “That must have been pretty awful.”

Robbie wiped his eyes. “Now I don’t trust my control. Not when I throw hard, anyway. And you saw what happens when I lob it in there.”

“I saw,” Ben said. “That shot Big Red hit—it hasn’t come down yet.”

Robbie managed a weak chuckle.

“My old coach used to call that a room-service fastball,” Ben said. “’Cause you delivered it to the batter on a silver platter.”

“Yep,” Robbie said. “Only thing I didn’t do was shout, ‘Come and get it!’” He shivered lightly in the damp air. “But I don’t ever want to hit another batter, I can tell you that.”

Someone inside switched on the patio light. Robbie could see Ben nodding now, appearing lost in thought.

“So somehow we have to get you past this beaning.…” he said.

“Ugh,” Robbie said. “Do you have to use that word? Sounds so…harsh.”

“Fine,” Ben said with a grin. “Somehow we have to get you past the incident where you caused a horsehide spheroid to engage with the skull of another young athlete. Accidentally, of course.”

“Okay, go back to beaning,” Robbie said. “Because now you sound like Marty.”

“What’s weird is that you realize it wasn’t intentional, just a terrible accident,” Ben went on. “And yet you’re still afraid you’ll hit someone.…”

“It’s like I can’t forget it,” Robbie blurted.

“That’s okay; you might never forget it,” Ben said. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that day in the woods. And the bike coming down on me. I remember everything about it. Even how blue the sky looked as the bike tore into me.”

Ben shook his head, as if trying to erase the thought.

“But you—you can’t let this hold you back forever,” he continued. “It took a long time for me to move on. Now we have to figure out what it’ll take for you to do it.”

“It’s not like I haven’t tried,” Robbie said. “My mom and dad say to give it time. But it’s been almost a year. I’m tired of pitching like crap. Not having a clue about where the ball’s going when it leaves my hand. And the other teams laughing at me.” He snorted. “Heck, my own teammates were laughing at me until a few weeks ago. They were calling me Ball Four.”

Ben nodded. “Bet that hurt,” he said. “But so much of control is about confidence. We have to get you back to throwing the way you did before you plunked that kid.” He shot Robbie a look. “How about plunked? Is plunked all right?”

Robbie sighed wearily. “Sure. Plunked is fine. Whatever.”

Ben stared off into the darkness for a moment.

“Okay, let’s try something,” he said suddenly. “No game Tuesday, right?”

“Right,” Robbie said. “We’re off. And we play the Rays Friday.”

“Let’s get a few of the guys and meet at the practice field Tuesday,” Ben said. “Get your buddy Marty. And we need a catcher, so Joey has to be there. Maybe a couple of other guys to shag balls, too.”

“You have an idea?”

“Maybe,” Ben said. “We’re going to have a batter stand in against you. And you’re going to throw hard. Like you used to. And you’re going to do that over and over again until you’re comfortable. Until you know you can do it.”

“Ha!” Robbie said. “Like anyone on the Orioles would ever stand there! Those guys know how wild I am. I almost took Willie’s head off in batting practice one day. And I just missed Jordy’s kneecap with another pitch. Marty, he’d rather be tossed into a pit with five hundred rattlesnakes than hit against me.”

Robbie looked down. “No, no way,” he continued sadly. “Who’s crazy enough to step in against a scatter-armed twelve-year-old head case?”

Ben didn’t hesitate.

“Me,” was all he said.