It was a warm, sunny afternoon at Eddie Murray Field, and the Orioles were getting ready to play the Blue Jays. It was the game they had looked forward to all week.

“Perfect day for the Loser Bowl!” Willie said as they warmed up. “Are they carrying this on ESPN?”

The Orioles were calling it the Loser Bowl because the Blue Jays were also winless. In fact, it was rumored that the Jays were every bit as bad a baseball team as the Orioles—possibly even worse, which was hard for the Orioles to fathom.

At the moment, most of them were lined up along the fence in shallow left field, watching the Jays take infield.

“Know what? These guys are terrible,” Connor said as a ground ball went through the third baseman’s legs and the kid slammed his glove in frustration.

“I thought we were bad,” Jordy said. “They make us look like all-stars.”

Watching the Blue Jays shortstop boot yet another easy grounder, Willie shook his head in wonder.

“I want everyone to hear this,” he said, raising his hands for quiet. “If we lose to these guys, I’m quitting this game. Forever. I’m dead serious, too. I’ll join the swim team. I’ll play in the band. But I will never, ever be seen in a baseball uniform again if these guys beat us.”

The rest of the Orioles nodded solemnly and continued watching with fascination.

Just then, the Blue Jays coach yelled “Bunt!” and tapped the ball a few feet in front of home plate.

The hulking Jays catcher whipped off his mask, lumbered after the ball, and promptly tripped over it. Finally retrieving it, he fired it ten feet over the first baseman’s head.

“Oh…my…God!” Jordy whispered, eyes widening.

“Is this, like, some kind of new reality series?” Mike said. “Like they’re following around the worst youth team ever assembled? And we just can’t see the TV cameras?”

Watching his first baseman run after the errant throw, the Jays coach wore a pained expression.

“Stand back! Their coach looks like he’s gonna hurl!” Willie whispered now as the rest of the Orioles cracked up.

Warming up with Joey farther down the sideline, Robbie found himself feeling cautiously optimistic for the first time all season.

Part of that had to do with the crappy Blue Jays hitters he knew he’d be facing. “Who needs to pitch against a bad team more than I do?” he murmured.

But he was also buoyed by the fact that, just twenty minutes before game time, his fastball was going exactly where he wanted it to go. And just like in the old days, it was slamming into Joey’s glove hard enough to rock the big catcher back on his heels.

On every fifth pitch, just to mix things up, Robbie would throw a changeup. Or he’d snap off a curveball that dropped viciously at the last minute, leaving Joey to dive to his knees and dig the ball out of the grass.

When the two were finished, Joey gave a low, appreciative whistle. “You’re in the zone today, bro!” he said. “Just in time to get our first win!”

Maybe, Robbie thought, smiling wanly. Too bad we actually have to play the game with batters. If it was just me throwing to Joey, I’d look like a Player of the Year candidate every time.

A moment later, he watched his dad walk toward him with a strange look on his face.

“Robbie…” his dad began, head down.

The last time Robbie had seen that look, Ray Hammond had summoned his family into the living room to tell them his raise at the police department had fallen through and they wouldn’t be going to Disney World after all.

Whatever’s coming, Robbie thought, it won’t be good news.

It wasn’t.

“Mike’s going to start for us,” his dad said quietly. “He’ll probably pitch the whole game, too. Just to give you a little break. Help clear your mind.”

Robbie was speechless but not surprised. For the past couple of weeks, he’d been dreading the possibility of his dad making a pitching change. After all, even on a pitching-poor team, how could the Orioles keep trotting out a kid who couldn’t find the plate and kept making opposing batters dance with all his wild fastballs in the dirt?

Still, now that the moment had actually arrived, it was killing him. He wished he had shared Kranitz’s report with his dad. But he’d been afraid to. He didn’t want his father thinking Robbie was going behind his back to get better coaching advice.

Robbie rubbed his eyes. No tears, he told himself. That’s all I need the guys to see: me blubbering like a baby.

“Yancy’s not feeling well,” his dad continued. “So you’re playing center field.”

Robbie nodded numbly. His dad draped an arm around his shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. “This’ll be a good change of pace for you, son.” Then to Joey he said, “Go warm up Mike.”

The Blue Jays pitcher was a tall kid with freckles whom the Orioles promptly nicknamed Spots. Watching him warm up at the start of the game, the Orioles saw that he seemed to have only two speeds: slow and slower.

Leaning on his bat in the on-deck circle, Willie was practically salivating at the prospect of facing one of Spots’s nonexistent fastballs. “We’re going to kill this guy,” he muttered.

The rest of the Orioles nodded in agreement. Joey and Jordy, their number two and number three hitters, were so eager to hit that they were already wearing their batting helmets and taking practice swings at the far end of the dugout.

But somehow Spots made it out of the first inning unscathed. Willie swung viciously at the first pitch and lifted a fly ball to the third baseman for the first out. Joey swung just as hard and topped a slow roller to the second baseman, who gloved this one smoothly and threw to first for the second out. And Jordy, swinging for the fences, got under a pitch and hit a routine fly ball to center.

Just like that, it was side retired in order.

Bounding off the mound, Spots smiled and gave a little fist pump.

“Look at that fool!” Willie hissed. “Like he’s Roy Halladay and he just punched out the side in the World Series!”

Trotting out to center field instead of jogging a few feet to the pitcher’s mound between innings seemed weird to Robbie. He felt a million miles away from the action. He yawned and looked around. How does anyone stay awake out here? he wondered.

But Mike retired the Blue Jays in order, striking out their leadoff hitter and getting the next two batters to hit weak comebackers to the mound. The Orioles hustled off the field.

Before heading out to coach third base, Robbie’s dad called them together. “Men,” he said, “I have an important announcement before we bat. Babe Ruth is dead.”

The Orioles exchanged puzzled looks. Then Marty brightened.

“That’s right!” he said. “He died August 16, 1948. At age fifty-three. From throat cancer, I believe.”

“Thank you, Mr. Human Wikipedia,” Coach said dryly. “The point is, you’re all swinging like the Babe. You’re all trying to kill the ball. I know you’re champing at the bit to hit one off this guy, but be patient up there. Short, compact swing. Just drive the ball.”

But again the Orioles went down in order against Spots. Connor flied out to left, and Carlos Molina, the third baseman, hit a weak line drive to the shortstop. Riley Adams, the left fielder, popped out to the catcher and tossed his bat in frustration.

“There’s that stupid fist pump again!” Willie said, watching Spots celebrate. “Do you realize how embarrassing this is?”

Fortunately, Mike kept the Blue Jays batting order off balance too. Both pitchers scattered four hits apiece over the next three innings as the game settled into a pitcher’s duel.

Finally, with one out in the top of the sixth, Connor doubled into the gap in left-center field and Carlos walked. The Orioles dugout stirred. For the first time all game, the smile was gone from Spots’s face, replaced by a bewildered frown.

“This is it!” Marty said. “He’s getting tired!”

Jordy snorted. “How can you tell?” he said. “What, his fastball goes from fifteen miles per hour to ten?”

Riley followed with another walk to load the bases. And as Spots kicked the dirt in frustration, the Orioles came to life.

In the on-deck circle, Robbie knocked the doughnut off his bat and made his way to the plate. He had always been a pretty good hitter, and now he was surprised at how calm he felt.

“Level swing!” his dad shouted. Robbie took a couple of practice cuts, then dug in and took a deep breath. Purposely he avoided looking out at Spots until the very last second. When he did, he was surprised to see how nervous the Blue Jays pitcher looked.

Boy, do I know that feeling, Robbie thought grimly. For an instant, he even felt sorry for the kid.

But there was no time for that, because Spots’s first pitch was on its way, a tantalizing, chest-high floater that almost seemed to stop midway to the plate. Robbie’s eyes widened. It looked the size of a beach ball.

Wait for it, wait for it, he told himself. Then he turned his shoulders perfectly and flicked the bat, ripping a double down the left field line that scored Connor and Carlos as Riley took third.

The Orioles dugout exploded with noise. When Robbie pulled into second base, he saw that his teammates were on their feet, banging their bats on the bench and pointing at him and cheering.

He realized it was the first time all season that his teammates actually looked happy over something he did.

That was it for Spots. The Blue Jays manager popped out of the dugout. A minute later Spots was trudging disconsolately off the mound and a new pitcher was warming for the Jays. The new kid had a decent fastball, striking out Mike and getting Marty on a one-hopper to first to end the inning.

Hustling in to get his glove, Robbie saw that the mood in the dugout was electric now. The Orioles led 2–0. And after all these weeks of losing, their first win was in sight.

If they could just hold on for one more inning…

“Three more outs!” Willie shouted, running the length of the bench and slapping hands with his excited teammates. “That’s all we need! Three outs!”

Just then, Ray Hammond clambered down the dugout steps.

“Robbie,” he said, “get loose. You’re relieving Mike.”

With that, the Orioles fell silent.