The Iron Mike pitching machine whirred into position and snapped forward, delivering another waist-high fastball. Robbie took a vicious cut, sending a line drive into the vast expanse of green grass in what would be right-center field if they were on an actual baseball diamond.

Ben whistled approvingly.

“That, my friend, is a shot!” he said. “Double all the way—even with your stubby little SpongeBob legs!”

Robbie grinned and waited for the next pitch. With no practice this afternoon—Ray Hammond had a big police departmental meeting to attend—some of the Orioles had descended on the outdoor batting cages at Grand Slam Extra, the vast baseball and softball training facility off York Road. Robbie and Marty were sharing one cage under the watchful eye of Ben, with Willie, Jordy, and Connor in the other.

As usual, Marty had wasted no time spreading the word, telling the rest of the Orioles that Robbie was through with pitching. Now the conversation centered on who else beside Mike could take the mound for the Orioles against the Yankees Saturday. The consensus seemed to be that Connor was the logical choice, since he had the strongest arm of all the position players—except Joey, who was deemed too valuable behind the plate.

“Okay, it’s Connor—pending Coach’s approval, of course,” Ben said. “I am but a lowly assistant coach and can’t make huge decisions like that.”

“Coach’ll go for it,” Willie said confidently. “He knows Connor’s a stud. With a stud arm.”

“And a pea brain,” Jordy said, laughing and punching Connor playfully in the shoulder.

Willie nodded. “Yes, the boy has limited intelligence,” he said, keeping a straight face. “But it’s the best we can do on short notice. Especially now that a certain someone has retired prematurely and left us hanging.”

Robbie hung his head and said nothing.

Connor chose to ignore the jabs. “You do realize I’ve never pitched before, right?” he said. “Like, never ever? So I wouldn’t exactly be expecting Justin Verlander out there.”

“That’s an all-star move, C, playing the I-never-pitched-before card,” Willie said, clapping him on the back. “Way to set the bar low for yourself.”

“I’m just sayin’,” Connor murmured.

They were still hitting a few minutes later when a voice behind them boomed, “Well, look who’s here! If it isn’t the Snore-ioles.”

Turning around, they saw Big Red and five other Yankees smirking and leaning against the railing. This time they wore matching Yankees workout T-shirts, and their matching Yankees gear bags were at their feet.

“We play you girls this weekend, don’t we?” Big Red continued. “Last game of the season, right? Well, last game before the playoffs. Oh, wait, that’s right! You guys aren’t going to the playoffs, are you? ’Cause a team has to actually win games to go, right?”

At this, the rest of the Yankees cracked up and high-fived each other like it was the funniest thing they had ever heard.

Willie rose to the bait immediately. “Matching tees today—what a surprise,” he said. “What do you do, call each other every morning to decide on the color scheme?”

Big Red’s grin vanished.

But Willie wasn’t through. “What’re you Yankees doing here, anyway?” he said. “Shouldn’t you all be getting your nails done together, too?”

Now it was the Orioles who cracked up, hooting and fist-bumping as the Yankees exchanged uneasy looks.

Big Red waited until the noise died down.

“Oh, look, there’s Wild Thing!” he said, staring at Robbie. “Yeah, we heard all about your adventures against the Rays. Broke the league record for walks, didn’t you? What did you have, about eighty that game?”

“Don’t worry ’bout the past,” Willie said. “We’ll see you chumps Saturday. And wear those nice puka-shell necklaces again. You all looked lovely in them.”

Big Red started to say something. Then he spotted Marty, who was trying to hide behind the other Orioles.

“Hey, nerd!” he said, eyes narrowing. “You and I have some unfinished business, don’t we?”

Marty’s face drained of color.

“Only reason I’m not whipping your butt today,” Big Red snarled, “is ’cause we’re running late.”

“Totally understand,” Marty said in a high-pitched voice, holding up a trembling hand. “It’s, uh, important to be on time. Promptness is a virtue. Or it should be.”

Big Red scowled and took a step forward. “Are you trying to be funny?”

“Shut up! You’re giving everyone a headache!”

It was Ben. Only this was Ben as Robbie and the other Orioles had never seen him. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were angry slits. The veins in his neck were bulging.

Big Red looked Ben up and down, then turned back to Robbie.

“Wild Thing,” he said with a sneer, “the quality of your bodyguards keeps going downhill. First a sixty-seven-pound nerd, now some loser with one arm. What’s next, a third-grader in a wheelchair?”

Ben balled his fist and lunged at Big Red. But Robbie and Willie quickly grabbed him and held him back.

Big Red smirked and signaled to the rest of the Yankees, who seemed to bend down as one and pick up their matching gear bags.

“Okay, we’re wasting time here,” he said. “See you Saturday, Snore-ioles. If you even bother to show up.”

By the time the Orioles finally left the batting cages a few minutes later, Ben had regained his composure. But Robbie was still fuming.

“If I didn’t suck, I’d make a pitching comeback and throw some serious heat just to shut Big Red’s fat mouth,” he said, peeling off his batting gloves.

“Maybe it won’t have to be a comeback,” Ben said.

Robbie looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” Ben said. “It’s just…you never know what can happen between now and Saturday. Maybe you’ll still want to pitch.”

“Trust me,” Robbie said, tossing his gloves and bat in his bag. “You couldn’t get me to pitch again if you held a gun to my head.”

“Might not take anything that drastic,” Ben said with a knowing smile.

Robbie gave him a puzzled look. But before he could say anything, Ben waved and jogged off for home.