He remembered it like it was yesterday: last summer’s all-star game, Eddie Murray Field manicured and shimmering like a green oasis in the afternoon sunshine, the bleachers filled, Robbie Hammond on the mound for the South team, throwing serious heat.

He had mowed down the first two North batters with six straight fastballs, drawing low murmurs of approval from the crowd. The third batter managed a weak grounder to second and tossed his helmet in disgust. But that was just for show. Robbie could tell the kid was just grateful to make any kind of contact at all against a pitcher throwing seventy-plus miles per hour.

In the second inning, the North’s cleanup hitter, a tall kid with dark hair and thick, muscular shoulders, strolled to the plate. Right away Robbie could tell there was something different about him.

The kid was chewing a big wad of bubble gum and seemed perfectly relaxed. There was no fear in his eyes. At the sight of him, the North parents and siblings all seemed to perk up, as if they were about to witness something special.

Maybe it was Robbie’s imagination, but he seemed to remember the PA announcer giving the kid’s introduction a little extra zing, too:

“NOW BATTING FOR THE NORTH ALL-STARS, NUM-BAH 12, STEE-VEE ALT-MANNNNN!”

The kid had stepped into the batter’s box like he owned it. He took his time digging in, holding his right hand up and signaling the ump that he wasn’t ready yet, the same way Derek Jeter of the New York Yankees always did.

Once he was set, he took three unhurried practice swings. Then he cocked his bat and looked serenely at Robbie as if to say: Okay, it’s showtime. Let’s see what you got.

Robbie was astounded. Will you look at this big jerk? he thought. Who does he think he is?

Instantly Robbie made a silent vow: This kid’s going down. On three pitches. Just like the others.

But his first pitch to the kid, a nasty fastball, just missed inside for ball one. The kid made no attempt to swing. Instead he seemed to study the pitch with mild curiosity. Then he nodded to himself, stepped out of the batter’s box, and took a few more easy swings.

Robbie’s second pitch was even nastier, a missile that split the middle of the plate and smacked into the catcher’s mitt with a loud thwack!

Again the kid stepped out and took a practice swing. And this time he calmly blew a huge bubble, as if he’d seen plenty of fastballs and those last two were no big deal.

Now Robbie could feel his irritation rising and the adrenaline pumping through him. The kid was playing games with him! Mocking him! Showing him up!

What is the deal with this guy? Robbie thought, gritting his teeth.

He went into a full windup, kicked high, and fired as hard as he could. Looking back on it now, it was probably the hardest pitch he had ever thrown in his life. But as soon as it left his hand, he knew something was terribly wrong.

Instead of heading for the outside part of the plate, the ball was tailing inside. Way inside. It kept tailing and tailing, as if in slow motion. In the next instant it plunked Stevie Altman square on the batting helmet, right above the left earflap. It sounded like a gunshot.

The boy went sprawling in the dirt. There was a gasp from the crowd. Then, for maybe five seconds, there was this awful silence.

He remembered seeing Stevie lying there, his right leg twitching, as both coaches jumped from the dugout and ran to him. A couple of dads rushed out of the stands, whipping out cell phones to call 9-1-1. One mom screamed. A knot of shaken North players hovered over their fallen teammate as the coaches shouted, “Move back! Give him room!”

Five minutes later an ambulance lurched to a stop beside the field, its siren wailing and lights flashing. Stevie’s eyes were still closed when the paramedics lifted him on a stretcher, belted him in, and took him away.

Somehow Robbie had managed to finish the inning. He got the next two batters to chase bad pitches and hit weak ground balls to the second baseman. The third batter hit a foul pop to the first baseman. When the inning was over, Robbie walked back to the dugout in a daze. He barely seemed to notice when his coach put both hands on his shoulders and spoke to him in a low voice.

“It was an accident,” the coach kept saying. “You didn’t mean to do it. Shake it off, now.”

A new pitcher took the mound for the South in the third inning, and Robbie watched the rest of the game from the bench. The South held on to win, 2–1. After the game, they handed out trophies to both teams. But Robbie, still thinking about Stevie, scarcely paid attention when the league commissioner congratulated him and handed him a gleaming gold trophy with a tiny figure of a batter on top.

That evening, Robbie and his dad had driven to the hospital to check on Stevie. Robbie dreaded seeing him—and his parents—but he knew it was the right thing to do. The Altmans met them in the lobby of the emergency room. Stevie had a concussion, they said. He was still being treated, and too groggy to talk to anyone. He would probably be kept in the hospital overnight for observation, they added. But the doctors were optimistic that he’d be all right. Stevie’s mom thanked them for coming. Mr. Altman was quiet and calm, like Stevie had been in the batter’s box.

Fifteen minutes later, Robbie and his dad were back in the car, headed home. Even though it was a warm summer night, Robbie felt a chill go through him. He asked his dad to roll up the windows.

“Robbie, I know you’re upset,” his dad had said. “But it’s not like you beaned him on purpose. These things happen in baseball. It was just a pitch that got away. He’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

But that hadn’t made Robbie feel any better, either. He slumped in his seat as he recalled how angry he’d been when he pulled back his arm, then released the ball with all his might.…

And ever since that awful day, Robbie had struggled with his control every time he stepped on the mound. No matter what he did to try to fix the problem—and he’d tried lots of things—nothing seemed to work.

Now, here it was, a new baseball season, and still he thought often about Stevie.

No one seemed to know where Stevie was these days. Someone said the Altmans had moved out of town. Reportedly, Mrs. Altman had gotten a new job in a different state.

Robbie was relieved that he wouldn’t have to face the kid again, but he was left with a lot of unanswered questions. He wondered if Stevie was okay, and if he was still playing baseball.

If he was, was he the same strong, confident batter as before?

Or did he flinch now every time the pitcher whipped his arm forward and the ball came spinning to the plate?

Did he get nervous and bail out on inside pitches? And when he closed his eyes at night, did he still see a fastball screaming at his head, ready to crash into his helmet and turn out the lights again?

Robbie’s dad kept saying, “Be patient, son. Your control will come back. I know it will.”

Maybe, Robbie thought. Or maybe not.

All he knew was this: he didn’t want to hit another batter as long as he lived.