Thick, dark clouds hung low in the sky as the Orioles and Yankees warmed up a half hour before game time the next day. Out beyond the right-field fence was what everyone was calling Camp Yankees, a jumble of Yankees folding chairs and Yankees tents manned by the players’ parents, who were outfitted in enough Yankees foul-weather gear to withstand a Category 5 hurricane.

Just as the Orioles prepared to take the infield, a foghorn voice cut through the air: “HEY, SNORE-IOLES! GET READY FOR A MAJOR BEATDOWN!”

“Gee, I wonder who that could be?” Willie said, not bothering to look.

“Could it be the human hairball himself, Big Red?” Connor said.

“WE’RE GONNA SMACK YOU LIKE A PIÑATA, SNORE-IOLES!” the voice cried.

“Puh-leeze,” Willie said, rolling his eyes. “Come up with better material, son.”

But none of the Orioles said anything back. At the Burger Barn the night before, right after Marty’s Three Hundred Spartans speech, they had made a pact: no trash-talking today. Take care of business. Focus on the game.

Get their first—okay, only—win of the season.

And do it with class.

This was Coach’s idea. Ben’s, too.

“Keep your eyes on the prize,” Coach had told them. “All that other stuff, the yapping at the other team and whatnot, saps your concentration.”

“Also drains your energy levels,” Ben had said. “I read a story about an NBA player who said he’d be gassed by the end of the first quarter if he was talking mad trash. He decided he’d play harder if he just shut up.”

So as Big Red continued to taunt the Orioles, Willie simply smiled at him and waved pleasantly, muttering under his breath, “What a first-class dork.”

One by one, the rest of the Orioles smiled and waved too.

“Jerk,” Connor whispered.

“Dork,” Gabe hissed.

“Loser,” Marty murmured.

The sight of all this smiling and waving seemed to puzzle Big Red. He glared at them for a moment. Then he turned and walked slowly back to the Yankees dugout, shaking his head.

The Orioles smothered their laughter.

“The boy has no clue!” Marty said.

“Probably pretty much how he goes through life,” Willie said.

When the Orioles took the field to start the game, Robbie sprinted to the mound. He looked up at the threatening sky and said a silent prayer. Please, no rainout. Not today. Not against these guys.

He had never felt more ready to pitch a game in his life. Warming up, he threw effortlessly, hitting whatever target Joey gave him, the ball popping into the big catcher’s mitt with a loud, satisfying WHAP!

Last night, Robbie had been so psyched to face the Yankees that he had tossed and turned in bed for hours. Today he was raring to go. So were the rest of the Orioles. He could read it in their faces. Last game, nothing to lose, let’s do this.

“Throwing strikes now!” his dad yelled. “Just like the old days!”

When the Yankees leadoff hitter stepped in against him, Robbie couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. He wasn’t trying to show the kid up. He was just amazed at how relaxed and confident he felt.

Joey put down one finger. Fastball. Robbie nodded and went into his windup. Today, he thought, you’ll taste the real Robbie Hammond heater.

The batter never had a chance.

The ball was on him before he could react. It was belt-high and tantalizing—if you could actually see it. But the kid was just moving the bat off his shoulder—probably thinking: Uh-oh, here it is, do I swing?—when the ball slammed into Joey’s glove for strike one.

The next two pitches were similar. Robbie reared back and fired, and the batter flailed away at two straight blistering fastballs. He was already walking back to the dugout, shaking his head as Joey whipped the ball down to Carlos at third.

“Whoa!” said a voice behind Robbie. He turned to see Willie staring at him in astonishment.

“Robert William Hammond,” Willie said, “that is some serious cheese you’re throwing!”

Robbie nodded and tugged the brim of his cap down low. This was his all-business look. You don’t need a game face, he thought, when you’re throwing serious—what did Willie call it?—cheese. But a game face doesn’t hurt, either.

The next batter went down on four pitches, managing to foul off the second before Robbie finished him off with two letter-high fastballs. Now he could hear a buzz coming from the Yankees dugout. Who is this kid? was the gist of the murmured conversation. The Yankees were seeing a completely different pitcher than the timid, erratic soul they’d seen last time. And they didn’t seem thrilled.

The Orioles, on the other hand, seemed totally energized by their pitcher’s performance. When Robbie got the next batter on a weak dribbler to the mound to retire the side, the Orioles sprinted off the field, hooting and slapping gloves, more excited than Robbie had seen them all season. He looked over at his dad, who gave him a big smile and a thumbs-up as he headed out to coach third base.

“Keep pounding that fastball,” Ben said. “Throw as hard as you can for as long as you can. If you get tired, we’ll bring in Mike.”

“Yeah,” Marty added. “Remember what Plato said: ‘Better a little which is well done, than a great deal imperfectly.’”

Ben shot him a look. “Unless Plato was a pitching coach,” he said dryly, “we probably don’t need to be quoting him right at this moment.”

“Whatever,” Marty said, sulking. “That’s what I get for trying to help people.”

The Orioles’ sense of elation didn’t last long. Big Red was on the mound for the Yankees, and he was throwing almost as hard as Robbie. Willie drew a leadoff walk on a 3–2 count, but Big Red settled down after that to strike out Joey and Jordy and get Connor on a foul pop to the third baseman.

Robbie was about to take the mound again when Joey shuffled over, his shin guards flapping.

“You know who leads off for them this inning, right?”

Robbie grinned. “Lemme guess,” he said. “Big kid? Red hair? Big muscles?”

Joey grunted. “Fits the general description. ’Cept you forgot to add big mouth.”

“My bad,” Robbie said. “Think we can close that yap for him?”

The catcher looked at him, a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. “You know,” he said as the two bumped fists, “I believe we can.”

As Robbie warmed up, Big Red glared at him from the on-deck circle before swaggering to the plate. Robbie had to give him credit: the kid didn’t lack for confidence. The rest of the Yankees already seemed intimidated about facing Robbie and his heater. But not Big Red. As he dug in, he wore the same smirk he’d had that day at the batting cages, the same smirk he’d worn the last time the two teams met.

“PITCHER’S GOT NUTHIN’, HONEY!” a shrill female voice yelled from the stands. “TOTAL RAG ARM! TAKE HIM DEEP! JUST LIKE LAST TIME!”

Ah, Robbie thought, that must be Big Red’s mom. Sounds as pleasant as her kid. For an instant, he wondered where Big Red’s dad was. Probably back home, yelling at little kids to stay off his lawn.

Robbie was amped. Since seeing Stevie Altman, all he had thought about was Big Red and striking him out. But maybe he was a little too amped now. He rocked, kicked, and fired a chin-high fastball that Joey had to leap to corral.

Ball one.

Big Red stepped out and sneered. “Wild thing,” he sang, “you make my heart sing.…”

“Knock it off, batter,” the ump barked.

“Sure, Mr. Umpire,” Big Red said sarcastically. “You’re totally the boss.”

Robbie was livid. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest. He took a deep breath and remembered Ben’s advice: Don’t overthrow. This is what you’ve been waiting for, he told himself. Don’t blow it. Go get the big jerk.

Just like that, he felt an eerie calm come over him again. His next pitch was a laser on the outside corner. Big Red swung from his heels. His bat caught nothing but air.

Strike one.

Joey put down one finger again. Robbie nodded, went into his windup, and fired. Fastball, inside. Big Red swung even harder this time, grunting from the effort. The muscles in his forearms seemed to ripple. But the ball popped harmlessly into Joey’s glove.

Strike two.

Behind him, Robbie could hear the Orioles pounding their gloves and yelling encouragement, their cheers getting louder with each pitch.

Big Red stepped out. Now the smirk was gone, replaced by a look of…well, Robbie wasn’t sure. Confusion? Uncertainty? Shaking his head and muttering to himself, Big Red seemed to take forever before he stepped back in.

“THAT’S OKAY, YOU STILL GOT HIM, HONEY!” the voice from the stands yelled. “SHOW THAT LITTLE LOSER WHAT YOU GOT!”

This time Robbie made Big Red wait. He stared in at the big guy for what seemed like ten seconds. Finally he reared back and fired, a high fastball that seemed to dart and rise on its way to the plate.

Big Red swung so hard he fell down, ending up sprawled in the dirt as players from both teams giggled uncontrollably.

“Strike three!” the ump cried.

Which is when Big Red had a meltdown.

First he swung the bat high over his head and brought it crashing down on the plate. Then he yanked off his batting helmet and fired it into the Yankees dugout, scattering a few teammates.

In a flash, the umpire whipped off his mask. Robbie could see it was the same ump who had worked the first Orioles-Yankees game, the same ump Big Red had jawed at after homering off Robbie.

His face contorted with anger, the ump started to raise his right hand, his thumb jutting upward.

Which was when Robbie said another silent prayer.

No, please don’t toss him, ump! I want to do that again.