The good news for Alex was that he got through the fourth inning. The bad news was Chester Heights was down, 9–5, and his coach had been ejected from the game.

Coach Birdy had said very little to him when he arrived at the mound, simply handed him the ball, saying, “You gotta throw strikes. Don’t walk the ballpark.”

Alex knew what the phrase meant: Warner had walked, by Alex’s count, five hitters—including the last two. That was a big part of why he was out of the game.

Alex did what he was told. His first pitch was a strike, a fastball down the middle. His second pitch was also a fastball down the middle. The Wilmington South hitter, a chunky righty, blasted it in the gap between Jonas and Warner. As fast as Jonas was, he had no chance to cut the ball off. It rolled to the wall for what would have been a triple if the batter had any speed. Instead, he jogged into second as two runs scored.

Matt had raced into the outfield to take the throw from Jonas after he ran the ball down. Seeing the runner wasn’t going anywhere, Matt jogged to the mound, still holding the ball.

“This isn’t Little League, Myers,” he said, handing him the ball. “You have to pitch to the corners. You throw the ball down the middle like that, they’re going to crush you.”

“I know,” Alex said. “Coach said to throw strikes….”

“On the corners,” Matt said, nodding. “Don’t be afraid. Your stuff is good enough to get outs. But you have to make the batter work. Okay?”

Alex nodded. There was a little of the old Matt in the pep talk. He liked that.

He got the next two batters out, but working the corners against the cleanup hitter, he walked him on a 3–2 pitch. Alex thought the pitch was a strike.

“Where was that, Ump?” he asked, walking to the front of the mound.

“High,” the ump answered.

“High?” Alex replied. “The guy’s, like, six four. How could that pitch be high?”

The ump walked out from behind the plate and pointed a finger at Alex. “If you want to be an umpire, son, go train for it. If you want to be a pitcher, get back on the mound and shut up.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Coach Birdy starting from the dugout. He put up a hand to indicate he was okay, turned his back on the ump, and went back to the mound. He was steaming. The pitch had been a strike.

He was still angry when he threw his next pitch, and it cost him. Not focused, he threw a fastball down the middle. As soon as he released the pitch, Alex knew he had messed up. Sure enough, the batter turned the pitch around so fast that all Alex saw was Warner turning his back in left field to watch it fly over the fence.

That made it 9–5. As the guy jogged the bases, Alex really wanted to scream at the umpire. Before he could make that mistake, Coach Birdy—perhaps reading his mind—arrived at the mound.

“You can’t let one bad call distract you like that, Alex,” he said. “You know that. It’s no different from basketball. Umpires make mistakes. You have to let it go.”

“But, Coach, I was out of the inning….”

“I know,” Coach Birdy said. “Doesn’t matter.”

Alex nodded. Coach Birdy turned to leave. As he did, though, he pointed a finger at the umpire. “At least admit you missed it,” he said. He wasn’t shouting, but in the emptiness of the ballpark, everyone could hear him.

The umpire took off his mask and walked toward Coach Birdy. “You too?” he said. “I’ll take it off the kid because he’s emotionally wound up. Not you.”

Coach Birdy had been walking in the direction of the dugout. Now he stopped and turned to meet the approaching umpire.

“You missed it,” Coach Birdy repeated. “You think you’re umpiring high school games because you’re a great umpire?”

“You think you’re coaching high school games because you’re a great coach?”

Coach Birdy smiled. “No, I’m coaching high school games because I’m a history teacher and I like baseball.”

The two men were now nose to nose. Alex wondered if he should intervene, then thought better of it.

“Well, you’d better find another game to watch today,” the ump said, “because you are out of this one.” He gave the ejection sign, arcing his right arm into the air and pointing at the sky. Coach Birdy, who had always been the calming voice in the basketball locker room, completely lost his temper for a moment.

“Are you kidding me?” he said, now right in the ump’s face. “You’re throwing me out because I stood up for one of my kids after you blew a call? The game’s about the kids, pal, not about you and your overblown ego!”

Alex didn’t hear the ump’s response because Coach Bloom had raced from the dugout to pull his boss away. Alex ran in while Coach Bloom stood between them and the umpire just in case Coach Birdy decided to make another charge.

“You’d better get him out of here!” the ump was yelling at Coach Bloom. “One more word and I promise I’ll recommend a suspension in my report!”

Matt was on the scene now, having charged in from shortstop when the argument started to get out of control.

“Go back to the mound,” he told Alex. “Don’t say another word to this guy.”

The ump looked at Matt for a moment, as if expecting him to argue too, but Matt just put his arm around Alex and walked him back to the mound.

Coach Bloom got Coach Birdy off the field. As Coach Birdy left, heading, Alex figured, for the locker room, the ump walked behind the plate, put his mask back on, and pointed at Alex.

“Play ball,” he said.

That, thought Alex, is what we’re all trying to do.

Alex got out of the inning with no further damage, but by then it was too late. Given a four-run cushion, Wilmington South’s starter got his second wind. Matt crushed another home run, a two-run shot in the sixth to make it 9–7, but Johnny Ellis, who relieved Alex in the seventh, gave up an additional run, and the final score was 10–7. Alex went to left field for the seventh to replace Warner, but the game ended in the bottom of the inning with him in the on-deck circle when Oliver Flick popped to second for the last out.

As the players began to line up for the postgame handshake, Alex was tempted to run over and say something more to the home plate umpire. He decided against it. There was a good possibility the guy would work more of their games before the season was over.

In the handshake line, Alex came face to face with the cleanup hitter. “Dre Byers,” he said as they shook hands. “Between you and me, that was strike three back in the fourth.”

Alex wasn’t sure what to say. He settled for “Alex Myers” and “Thanks for saying that.”

“We’ve had that guy in the past,” Byers said. “He’s not very good, and he’s got a temper.”

“Nice combination in an umpire,” Alex said.

Byers laughed. “No kidding. Good luck the rest of the season.”

“You too,” Alex said.

He couldn’t help but sigh. In football, he’d gotten knocked cold in the season opener. In basketball, he’d made a play that led to his coach getting ejected in his first game. And now, in baseball, he’d been in the middle of another dustup that led to his coach getting ejected.

Jonas walked up behind him. “If I ever coach and you have a son, do me a favor and tell him to play a different sport,” he said.

“You’re always here for me, aren’t you?” Alex said.

“Someone’s got to do it,” Jonas said. “You keep getting your coaches kicked out of games.”

He was clearly pleased with himself for his humor. Before Alex could respond, he saw Christine Whitford and Steve Garland, the sports editor of the Weekly Roar, approaching. Except that Christine, after giving him a quick wave, peeled away to talk to Matt, leaving Alex with Garland.

“Have you given any thought to just showing up for the third game of each season?” Garland said.

“You too?” Alex asked. “Is it my fault the ump missed strike three? The kid I threw the pitch to just told me it was a strike. How is that my fault?”

“Little uptight, Alex?” Garland asked.

“Yeah,” Alex admitted. “Just a little.”

Steve Garland was a good guy, a good reporter, and a good writer. During football season, he had been the one person in the school willing to call Coach Gordon out for running up scores, for being a bully, and for taking credit for plays he hadn’t called.

He asked Alex to walk through what had happened, which Alex did, including what Dre Byers had said to him a few minutes earlier.

“Were you surprised that Coach Birdy got so upset?” Garland asked. “He’s not exactly what you’d call a hothead.”

Garland was right about that. “You should probably ask him what happened,” Alex said. “But yeah, I was a little surprised.” He paused for a second. “But Coach didn’t say anything except ‘Just admit you missed it.’ It was the ump who amped up the whole thing. He was the hothead.”

“You didn’t recognize him?” Garland asked.

“Recognize him?”

Garland nodded. “Remember when the basketball team played at Mercer back in December? He was the ref who tossed Coach Archer.”

Alex gasped. Garland was right. It hadn’t even occurred to him that a basketball ref would umpire baseball, but then again, why wouldn’t he?

“Wow” was all he could think to say.

“You think he had it in for you guys?”

Alex thought that one over for a minute. He knew where Garland was going, and he also knew he should be careful here. “I’m not sure,” he finally said. “Anyone can miss a call. The guy does have a temper. But we didn’t lose because of him. We lost because we played lousy.”

“Except for Gordon,” Garland said.

Matt had been three-for-three, with two homers, a double, and a walk, and had driven in all seven Chester Heights runs.

“Yeah,” Alex said, glancing to his right, where Christine and several other reporters were talking to Matt. “Except for Matt.”

“Did you know he was this good a baseball player?” Garland asked.

“I had no idea,” Alex said. “He told me during the winter that he was good, but I didn’t expect this.”

“Coach Birdy says Matt’s pitching on Tuesday. Can he pitch like he hits?”

Alex thought about that for a minute also. “He might be a better pitcher than he is a hitter.”

Garland looked closely at him, as if deciding whether Alex was serious.

“Really?” he said.

“Really,” Alex answered.

“If that’s the case,” Garland said, “you’re going to have a lot of pro scouts showing up pretty soon.”

Alex looked again in the direction of Matt and the reporters. They were gone—except for Christine. She and Matt were still talking. And she had put her notebook away.