It seemed to Alex that there were two Matt Gordons in his life.

There was Matt the Old—the same guy who had been his friend all fall; who had stood in front of the whole school and taken responsibility for his screwup with PEDs; who had taken the time to teach him how to properly grip a curveball.

Then there was Matt the New—who couldn’t seem to get enough attention; who seemed worried only about himself; who thought he was better than everyone, at least in part because he was better than everyone.

On Thursday, the day before the game at King of Prussia, Matt the Old made another appearance at practice.

“Your curve’s coming along, Goldie,” he said as they threw lightly on the side while the position players took batting practice. “But you’re gonna need a third pitch. You need a slider. Never been a great pitcher who hasn’t thrown one.”

Alex was a long way from being a great pitcher, but he knew that in the majors the slider was often the “out” pitch—the one that pitchers used when they most needed an out. The most notable exception, at least as far as Alex knew, was his fellow Billerican Tom Glavine, who had been famous for throwing one of baseball’s wickedest changeups.

“How do you throw it?” Alex asked.

“I’ll show you,” Matt said, taking the ball from Alex. “Here, hold the ball as if you’re going to throw your fastball.”

As he had done with the curveball, he showed Alex the grip—which wasn’t all that different from the way Alex gripped his fastball. He knew it was called a “two-seam” fastball because you gripped the two seams with your fingers side by side. Older pitchers also threw a “four-seamer,” which simply meant your fingers went across the seams so each touched the seams twice—for a total of four seams.

“All you do is move your index finger so it’s between the seams rather than on the left seam. Gives the ball a different spin. Then you cock your wrist a little more toward where the thumb is on the other side of the ball. The extra pressure on the thumb makes the ball break and dart, and it comes in almost as fast as the fastball. That’s why it’s so hard to hit.”

Alex did as he was told. Since they weren’t actually doing any throwing the day before a game, Matt ran down to catch him. “Just throw a few,” he said.

The first three slipped completely out of Alex’s hand because he was unable to control the ball with his thumb the way he did with his index and middle fingers. The fourth pitch was better—reaching Matt’s glove.

“Right!” Matt shouted. “Just ease up a little. Remember what I said about the curve—try easier.”

Alex did so, and each pitch got a little better. Matt stopped him after ten pitches.

“Don’t want to overdo it,” he said. “You need your arm for tomorrow. For now, only use it on three-and-oh when no one’s on base and if you miss with it and it’s a walk, it’s no big deal. Or on oh-and-two when if you throw a strike, the batter’s got no chance, or if you throw a ball, it’s still one-and-two. You’ll need to practice it some more before you start throwing it often.”

“Thanks, Matt,” Alex said. “Where did you learn all this?”

“From a book,” Matt said. “That’s where I got the grips. Throwing the pitches was practice. Remember: Try easier.”

They heard Coach Birdy’s whistle and jogged, with the other pitchers, to the middle of the infield.

Once again, Alex wondered who the real Matt Gordon was. He liked this one a lot.

Alex never got to try his slider in Friday’s game against King of Prussia. They’d finished mid-conference last year, so Alex hoped he could cruise through to a win. But when he walked into the dugout after warming up, Matt pulled him aside.

“They’ve got three transfers,” he said. “Two of them are twin brothers, and they hit third and fourth.”

“How do you know?” Alex asked.

“Because the kid you’re pitching against is their starting quarterback,” Matt said. “He told me a few minutes ago.”

The twins, Jake and Joey Herman, were huge. Alex found out later they’d just moved from California with their mom.

In the first inning, Alex struck out the leadoff hitter but then gave up an infield single to the second batter. The kid hit what Alex figured was a routine grounder to third base. Jeff Cardillo fielded it cleanly and threw smoothly to first. There was one problem: The KOP kid was so fast that he beat the throw.

Then Jake Herman stepped in. Alex had never pitched to anyone so big. He had to be six foot five and weigh at least 230 pounds. But could he hit?

Alex got the answer quickly. After he’d thrown a fastball outside, he came back with another fastball, meant to get inside and on Herman’s hands. Clearly, it wasn’t far enough inside because Herman turned on it and hit a line drive that Alex thought might go through the right field fence. It hit halfway up, and Brendan Chu and Jonas chased it down in right-center. The kid with the rockets in his legs scored easily from first, and Herman lumbered into second.

That was the hardest Alex had ever seen anyone hit a ball—until two pitches later. He got a called strike on Joey Herman, then decided to try to fool him with a curveball off the plate. The pitch caught too much of the plate and didn’t fool Herman even a little bit. He swung and hit the ball five miles into the air. It didn’t go straight up, though—it kept carrying to center field. Jonas raced back a few steps, then stopped and turned to watch it soar way over the fence. Alex figured it would come down somewhere near the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

Alex had faced only four batters and already trailed 3–0.

Coach Birdy came out to talk to him.

“You okay?” he said. “Those two guys are both eighteen-year-old seniors. Don’t worry about them. Get the rest of these guys out, and we’ll even up the score.”

Alex, still a little bit in shock, nodded.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Coach.”

He was lying. He walked the next two batters and then gave up a two-run double. It was 5–0 by the time he got to the dugout.

The KOP fans were roaring, and the Lions were shaken. But they got a couple men on in the second, which steadied them, even though they didn’t come around to score.

Alex regrouped and pitched better after that. He got the first two hitters in the second inning, then unintentionally/intentionally walked both Hermans. The number five hitter singled to drive in Jake, but Alex struck out the next hitter to get out of the inning.

Then he retired the side in order in the third.

As he came to the dugout, though, Coach Birdy said, “Good job, Alex. We’re going to put you out in left next inning.”

“Coach, I just got ’em one, two, three,” Alex said in protest.

“I know you did,” Coach Birdy said. “But you’ve thrown seventy-eight pitches. I couldn’t let you pitch more than one more inning anyway because I wouldn’t want to risk your arm. Let’s give the bullpen some work and make sure your arm lives to pitch another day.”

Alex hoped the Lions’ bats would get hot in a hurry. But no.

And the bullpen got shelled even worse than Alex had. Each Herman brother hit a massive home run, and the rest of the lineup chipped in too. By the time the carnage was over, King of Prussia had fourteen runs. Chester Heights managed to score twice—in the top of the seventh—making the final score 14–2.

“Too bad they don’t have a mercy rule in this league,” Jonas said after the last out.

“You aren’t supposed to lose this badly in high school, I guess,” Alex replied. The mercy rule was in effect in Little League games. If a team fell behind by ten runs, the game ended in order to avoid truly embarrassing scores…like 14–2.

Once they’d shaken hands and gathered in the dugout before the bus trip home, Coach Birdy spoke quietly but firmly.

“It was a bad day,” he said. “They happen in baseball. We play them back at our place next month; the score might be reversed.”

“Only if I pitch,” Matt said, loud enough to be heard.

Everyone turned and looked at him. “Kidding,” he said, realizing how obnoxious the comment had sounded.

“Gordon, if you’d pitched today, the score might still have been fourteen to two,” Coach Birdy said. “They just had a very good day, and we had a bad one. We’re one-and-one in conference now, and we go to Haverford Station on Tuesday. They’re likely to be as solid as these guys.” He looked Matt right in the eye. “You’re pitching, Gordon,” he said. “We’ll find out what you’ve got. For the rest of you, let’s make Monday’s practice a productive one. I’ll have some things for us to work on.”

The bus ride back to school was very quiet. As usual, Alex sat near the back with Jonas. When the bus was stopped at a light, Matt came and sat right across from Alex.

“You know what I said wasn’t directed at you, right?” he said.

Alex really wasn’t sure. “Well, it was directed at least in part at me, wasn’t it?” he said. “I was the one who got us down by six runs after two innings.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Yeah, but,” Jonas interrupted. “You need to stop thinking you’re Madison Bumgarner or something. We all know you’re good. We see the scouts and the agents. But you don’t need to rub our noses in it. Where’s the Matt Gordon we’d have all run through a wall for during football season?”

Matt stared at Jonas, and for a moment, Alex thought the two of them were going to really get into it.

“I don’t know where he is,” Matt finally answered. “Maybe he decided that winning’s more important than being Mr. Nice Guy.”

“We won twelve football games,” Alex said. “A lot of them because of you.”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “And lost the last one. Without me.”

This time, he didn’t wait for the bus to stop before getting up and walking back to his seat.

Alex was left feeling like he’d been punched in the gut all over again.

Jonas mumbled under his breath: “Intervention time, for sure.”

The plan for Saturday morning was for everyone to meet in the school parking lot at nine-thirty. Alex had asked for Jonas to be included too, and Stevie had arranged for it. After what had happened on Friday, Alex wasn’t sure it was such a good idea. In fact, he wasn’t sure if the whole outing was a good idea. He’d never felt so tense about going to a ball game.

Alex, Christine, and Jonas had all ridden their bicycles and were waiting by Stevie’s car when Matt pulled up shortly after nine-thirty.

“Sorry, everyone,” Matt said as he locked his car. “I hit every light. Least it felt that way.”

As they drove toward Citizens Bank Park, Stevie explained to them how things would go.

“We’ll all go into the clubhouse, and I’ll introduce everyone to Bryce. I told him I was bringing several people in addition to Matt. Then, Matt, we’ll leave you to really talk with Bryce, and I’ll take everyone else to the Phillies’ clubhouse. I thought you might want to meet some of the players.”

“No autographs, right?” Jonas asked.

“Right,” Stevie said. “You’re in the clubhouse with a media credential, so you have to behave like members of the media. They aren’t allowed to ask for autographs.”

“Why not?” Alex asked, curious.

“It’s unprofessional,” Stevie said. “Fans can’t go in there to ask for autographs, so the presumption is that if you’re there, it’s because you have a job to do. If you aren’t doing a job, you shouldn’t be there.”

“In other words, we shouldn’t be there,” Alex said.

“I told the Phillies exactly what we were doing when I asked for the credentials, and I promised that no one would get in the way,” Stevie said. “If I’d wanted to bring you in after a game, with writers on deadline, they’d have said no. But before a game, especially a day game, it’s a little bit looser.”

Stevie had managed to get a parking pass in the media lot, which was directly across the street from the media entrance, but a long way from home plate—at least as far as Alex could see. The guy at the door waved them through when he saw their credentials. That surprised Alex a little. They didn’t exactly look like reporters.

They walked down a long hallway that led past the Phillies’ clubhouse and finally came to the clubhouse marked VISITORS. They had to sign in there, and then Stevie led them into the biggest locker room Alex had ever seen in his life.

There were several couches in the middle of the room, and a card table and chairs nearby. A number of guys were playing cards, and several others, in varying degrees of undress, were sitting on the couches reading newspapers. If Christine’s presence bothered them, they didn’t show it. Alex noticed a female reporter standing at Gio Gonzalez’s locker chatting with the left-handed pitcher.

Bryce Harper was sitting in an armchair by his locker, headphones on, when they approached. He must have seen them coming, because he took the headphones off and stood to greet Stevie.

They shook hands, and Harper nodded at Stevie’s four companions. “Which one’s the hotshot pitcher?” he asked. He smiled at Christine and said, “I’m betting you’re the hotshot reporter, right? The next Stevie Thomas?”

“The next Susan Carol Anderson, I hope,” Christine said, giving Harper her dazzling smile.

“Oh yes, I’ve met her,” Harper said. “She and Stevie are quite the team.”

Stevie introduced them all, saving Matt for last. “He’s the hotshot pitcher,” he said.

“Okay, hotshot,” Harper said. “How about if you and I take a walk out to the dugout. No BP today, so it’ll be quiet out there.”

He picked up his phone, which was in his locker, and held it up. “I’ll text you when we’re done,” he said to Stevie.

“We’re going to go by the Phillies’ clubhouse,” Stevie said.

“Good,” Harper said. “Tell their pitcher to go easy on me.”

As luck would have it, Matt Harrison, the Phillies’ pitcher, was standing in front of his locker talking to Dick Jerardi when they walked into the home clubhouse, which was about twice the size of the visitors’ clubhouse.

“You could put a hundred guys in here,” Alex murmured to Jonas as they walked in.

“Easily,” Jonas said.

Seeing a friendly face, Stevie made a beeline for Jerardi, who looked a little surprised to see the four teenagers walking in his direction.

“Hang on—is this the World Series?” he said with a laugh. “I thought Stevie Thomas only showed up for the big events.”

“Just visiting,” Stevie said. “I think you know these guys from Chester Heights.”

“I do,” Jerardi said. “Two three-sport stars and a future Pulitzer Prize winner.” He turned to Harrison and said, “Matt, when you’re ready to write your book, this”—he pointed at Christine—“is who you want to write it.”

Alex noticed that Christine had turned bright red. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her look embarrassed before. Angry, yes; embarrassed, no.

Harrison put out a hand to Christine. “When the time comes, Dick will know how I can reach you, right?” he said with a smile.

Christine was trying to talk but not doing very well. Finally, she managed to stammer, “Um, sure, yeah….I think he’s just joking.”

“Couldn’t be more serious,” Jerardi said. Then he introduced Alex and Jonas. It occurred to Alex that he had never before been in the presence of someone who was paid more than thirteen million a year. The thought made him a little bit dizzy.

“So, what brings you guys out today?” Harrison said. “It isn’t to see me pitch—I’m injured.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stevie said. “Harper says to tell the other guys to go easy on him.”

Harrison laughed. “If we go easy on him, he’ll hit three bombs today instead of just one or two.”

Stevie explained the real purpose of the outing. Harrison turned serious.

“How good is he?” he asked.

It was Jerardi who answered. “I’ve seen him once, Matt. He’s very good—for sixteen. Hits ninety-four, ninety-five on the gun pretty regularly. Good control. If you didn’t know how old he was, you’d figure him for eighteen, maybe nineteen.”

“What’d you hit on the gun when you were a junior in high school?” Stevie asked.

“Never hit ninety,” Harrison said. “But I grew kind of late. Sometimes it’s better that way. You put a lot of pressure on your arm throwing in the mid-nineties that young. That’s why so many young pitchers end up having Tommy John before they’re twenty-five.”

Alex knew that Tommy John was a kind of elbow-repair surgery that had first been performed in the 1970s on a very good pitcher named Tommy John. The doctor who invented it, whose name Alex couldn’t remember at the moment, had taken a tendon from John’s other arm and used it to replace a torn ligament in his pitching elbow. The surgery had now become almost commonplace among pitchers, and in many cases, they actually threw harder after the surgery than they had before.

“That’s one reason we thought it would be a good idea to talk to Bryce,” Stevie said. “Even though leaving high school early didn’t hurt him, he went through some growing pains along the way.”

Harrison nodded. “That was about maturing as a person more than as a hitter, probably,” he said. “Plus, he’s a once-in-a-lifetime type of talent. Pitchers should never be rushed.”

“Matt’s a good hitter too,” Christine said.

Harrison smiled. “I was a good hitter in high school too,” he said. “We were all good hitters in high school.”

“So what would you tell him to do?” Jerardi asked.

“Go to college,” Harrison said. “Enjoy being a kid. Once you turn pro, you’re living the life of an adult, even if you aren’t an adult. And the minor leagues are rough. Small towns, cheap hotels, bars where you can smell the cigarette smoke before you walk inside. Tell him not to be in a rush.”

“You signed out of high school,” Christine said—not surprising Alex by knowing Harrison’s history. “And you turned out all right.”

“Yup, I did,” Harrison agreed. “I wasn’t quite eighteen when I signed, and I struggled for a few years and I’ve had a lot of injuries along the way. I could have gone to college, had a good time, and still been here today.”

“So do you regret signing early?” Alex said.

Harrison shook his head. “Regret it? No. Like my future biographer said, I turned out all right. But if I had it to do over again…” He paused and shrugged. “I would like to know somebody’s fight song by heart.”