Robbie stared in disbelief. It felt like a dream—a really bad dream. First pitch and I hit a kid? No way!

Now the Rays coach was running to his batter while shouting at Ray Hammond, “Is that what you teach your guys, Coach? Throw at the first kid? Intimidate the other team from the get-go?”

But the Rays batter climbed to his feet right away and quickly trotted down to first base. And while Robbie’s dad tried to reassure the other coach that no one was throwing at the Rays intentionally, Ben paid a visit to the mound.

“Okay,” he said, “one got away from you. But the kid’s fine. You can see he’s fine, right?”

Robbie checked out the runner on first. Then he looked back at Ben and nodded numbly.

“The kid’s not even rubbing where you hit him!” Ben continued. “So you didn’t exactly cripple him. Just nicked him, is all.”

It was true. The kid was smiling now, chatting with the first base coach as if nothing had happened and they were discussing their favorite TV show.

“So now you have to shake it off,” Ben went on. “I know that’s tough to do. But you gotta move on. Like we talked about, like I had to do after the accident. And the only way for you to move on is throw hard. And prove to yourself you can get guys out.”

Ben smacked him on the shoulder and left. As the next batter dug in, Robbie took a deep breath. His legs felt unsteady and his hands were still trembling. But I’m not giving in, he thought. Ben was right. If he ever hoped to get back his old form, he had to throw heat.

And he did.

But it wasn’t pretty.

Four straight balls to the Rays’ number two hitter put runners on first and second. With the count 3 and 2, the next batter swung at a high fastball—a pitch he couldn’t have reached with a stepladder—for the first out. Robbie walked the next batter to load the bases. Then the Rays number five hitter crossed them up and laid down a bunt that Joey pounced on, except his throw to first sailed over Jordy’s head as two runs crossed the plate.

“My bad all the way,” Joey said, kicking at the dirt in disgust.

“It’s okay,” Robbie said. That was something he had always admired about Joey. The kid might be a rock head, but he never made excuses, always manned up when he made an error or screwed up an at-bat.

Still throwing hard, Robbie promptly walked the next kid. But each of the next two batters helped him out big-time, swinging at terrible pitches in the dirt for back-to-back strikeouts to end the inning.

Robbie trudged back to the dugout with his head down. Score after one inning: Rays 2, Orioles 0. And everyone in the ballpark knew the Orioles were lucky to be trailing only by two.

“Okay,” Ben said. “You’re all over the place. But at least you’re throwing hard. That’s the first step, right? Now we get some runs. Then you go back out there and shut them down.”

“You make it sound so easy!” Robbie barked, and right away he was sorry to lash out at his new friend. But Ben seemed to take it in stride.

“No,” he said evenly. “It’s not easy. Not easy at all. But I know you can do it.”

As Ben had predicted, the Orioles got some runs. Willie led off with a single and scored on a double by Jordy. After Connor flied out to center, Carlos delivered a run-scoring single to tie the game before Riley hit a line drive to the Rays’ first baseman, who stepped on the bag to double up Carlos and end the inning.

Still, now it was Rays 2, Orioles 2.

Just like that, the Orioles had new life.

“There you go, big guy!” Ben said before Robbie took the mound again. “We’re back in the game! Now keep us there.”

Only, things got even worse for Robbie in the second inning.

He walked the first two batters on eight straight pitches, not one even close to a strike. And his first pitch to the next Rays hitter rocketed over the kid’s head and clanged ten feet up the backstop. Even the umpire whipped off his mask and turned around to see where the ball hit, smiling in amusement.

Then Robbie heard it.

Heck, everybody heard it. They could probably hear it in Alaska. It came from the Rays dugout, a sound he recognized right away.

They were singing “Wild Thing,” that dumb song in the Major League movies that he and his dad still watched occasionally. The song the Cleveland Indians crowd sings when the crazy-wild relief pitcher with the thick ugly glasses—what was his name, Ricky Vaughn?—comes into the game:

Wild Thing, you make my heart sing.…

Robbie looked at the stands. Little kids were standing and pointing at him and laughing. Moms and dads were shaking their heads at the song and exchanging knowing looks. Even the Rays batter was smirking as the serenade continued.

Robbie tugged at the brim of his cap, pulled it down low so no one could see the tears welling in his eyes.

Then he picked up the rosin bag and slammed it down angrily. Nice job, jerk face, he thought. Way to come through for your team. Two games left and you have the biggest meltdown of the season!

Seconds later, Ray Hammond popped out of the dugout and walked slowly to the mound, signaling for Mike to come on in relief.

“Sorry, son,” his dad said, holding out his right hand for the ball. “You didn’t have it today. But we’re still in this one. And I owe it to the team to try to win it.”

The walk to the dugout felt like the longest walk of Robbie’s life. He slumped dejectedly at the end of the bench, barely noticing when Ben came over and patted his shoulder and told him to hang in there.

The rest of the game went by in a blur. Robbie tried to be a good teammate. He cheered loudly when a long home run by Connor put the Orioles ahead 3–2 in the fourth inning. And he shouted encouragement—shouted almost until he was hoarse—when Mike got into trouble an inning later and gave up two runs as the Rays went ahead 4–3.

But he couldn’t shake the awful feeling that he’d let the whole team down—again. And when Riley struck out to end the game and the 6–3 loss was in the books, the Orioles’ eleventh straight, Robbie wanted to run and hide somewhere.

As the Orioles gathered up their equipment, Willie slammed his glove against the fence.

“Second season’s turning out pretty much like the first,” he said.

“Only season I’m looking forward to now is the off-season,” Carlos muttered.

“Who wants to keep playing like this?” Riley said.

“Not me,” Robbie whispered as he kicked off his spikes.

And in that instant, he arrived at a decision.

He’d given it all he had. He’d tried everything to get his control back, to pitch like he used to, when he threw hard and loose and with confidence, when the ball went where he wanted it to and baseball was a joy to play.

And nothing had worked.

Dad can say whatever he wants, he thought. Same thing with Ben. But I’m not listening anymore.

Stick me in the outfield in that last game against the Yankees. Or stick me on the bench, which is probably what I deserve. I don’t care.

I’m done with pitching.

Forever.