Corey spent the night tossing and turning, waking with a jolt from disturbing dreams the few times he actually managed to fall asleep. In one dream, he was at the plate with a 3–2 count and the pitcher delivered a fastball at least two feet outside. But when Corey tossed his bat aside and began trotting down to first base, the umpire yelled, “Stee-rike three!” And when the ump whipped off his mask, it turned out to be his dad, grinning like a gargoyle and cackling, “No free passes today, son!”

“How do you go back to sleep after something like that?” Corey muttered to himself, punching the pillow and trying to get comfortable again.

Early the next morning, he texted Sammy and the two slipped down to the pool, which was empty except for a teenage lifeguard busy flirting with pretty twin sisters.

They dove into the deep end. When they surfaced, Sammy gazed at the lifeguard with an annoyed expression.

“If I cramped up and sank to the bottom right now,” he said, “how long would it take that guy to notice?”

Corey shrugged and didn’t answer.

“I’m thinking twenty minutes, minimum,” Sammy continued. “Maybe a half hour. By then I’d be so stiff, you could use my body as a coffee table.”

“There’s a cheerful thought,” Corey said.

“I mean, look at him!” Sammy continued. “He’s supposed to be protecting our lives, right? But he doesn’t even know we’re here! He’s all wrapped up in Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen over there.”

Corey forced a weak smile, and Sammy finally caught on that his buddy was in no mood for jokes. They swam for a few more minutes before plopping down on a couple of lounge chairs.

“Look, dude, your dad didn’t mean it,” Sammy said quietly.

Corey nodded wearily. “I know,” he said. “He feels terrible about the whole thing. He didn’t get any sleep last night, either. Know what’s even sadder? He still doesn’t get it. He said we looked so bad against the Cherry Hill team that he thought we needed help in our next game. His help. Ha!”

The events of the past fifteen hours seemed like a blur to Corey now. After the confrontation with the Scranton Blue Jays coach and the lecture from the Grand Slam staffer, word had quickly spread—courtesy of Mickey’s big mouth—that the Orioles had been booted from the tournament. Coach had then met quietly with the angry parents to explain the situation, a meeting his dad had wisely decided to skip, for fear of being turned into a human piñata.

As it was, Corey had spent the night expecting his hotel room to be stormed by a raging mob of moms and dads wielding pitchforks and flaming torches.

The rules committee was scheduled to render a final decision by eleven this morning on whether the Orioles were still in the tournament.

If the verdict was yes, they would play the Blue Jays at three that afternoon and live happily ever after. If the verdict was no, they’d be sullenly packing up and hitting the highway in a matter of hours, with an abashed Corey convinced that he’d have to wear a paper bag over his head for the rest of his life.

The way Corey saw it, only a miracle could keep the Orioles in the tournament now.

For one thing, the Blue Jays coach did not exactly seem like the type to forgive and forget his dad’s transgression. For another, after doing some Internet research on his dad’s iPad, Corey had confirmed that recording another team’s signs was considered the ultimate sin at every level of organized baseball, especially at youth tournaments.

No, he thought, we’re doomed. There’s no point trying to be Mr. Optimistic about this one.

“If it makes you feel better,” Sammy said, “everyone on the team understands this had nothing to do with you.”

Just then, the gate opened and Katelyn appeared.

“Well,” Sammy added, “almost everyone.”

It was obvious that Katelyn was on a mission. She scanned the nearly deserted pool deck, her head swiveling back and forth like the point man on an infantry patrol. When she finally spotted them, her eyes narrowed and she made a beeline for Corey.

“What is the deal with your crazy dad?” she demanded. “And why can’t you control him?”

“Good morning to you, too, Katelyn,” Sammy said.

She shot him a withering look and turned back to Corey. “Your dad is killing us, Maduro,” she continued. “Freakin’ killing us! What’s wrong with him?”

Corey jumped to his feet. He could feel his face getting hot. “There’s nothing wrong with him!” he said. “He’s a great dad! You couldn’t have a better dad! He loves baseball. And he loves the Orioles! He’s just a little…overinvolved.”

“Seriously? A little overinvolved?” Katelyn said. “Ha! That’s a good one! I heard all about that shouting match he had with the Dover Cardinals dad. And now we’re on the verge of getting kicked out of here because someone gave him access to a video camera!”

Corey slumped back dejectedly in his chair.

“And look at the two of you,” Katelyn said, shooting them a pitying look. “Doing nothing about the situation. Sitting there twiddling your thumbs like TweedleDumb and TweedleDumber.”

“Oh, like you have a better idea?” Sammy asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she said.

She pulled up a chair and looked at them intently. “Here’s what we’re going to do, nerds,” she continued. “We find out where this rules-committee meeting is. It’s got to be around here someplace. And we show up there and plead our case directly.”

“Ohhh-kay,” Sammy said. “And what exactly is our case?”

“Simple,” Katelyn said. “The bottom line is, we had nothing to do with this recording stuff. Nothing. It wasn’t one of our players who did it. And it wasn’t our coach. It was just one nutso parent”—she glared at Corey again—“who somehow decided that stealing another team’s signs was a good thing to do.

“But our coach didn’t look at the recording,” she went on. “And neither did any of us players. No, we were as shocked as anyone at what this rogue dad did! So we look those committee members in the eye and we say, ‘How can you kick little angels like us—straight-A students who love baseball, are wonderful to our parents, selflessly devoted to our brothers and sisters, et cetera—out of your tournament?’”

“Sure,” Sammy said. “Like the committee’s going to listen to a bunch of kids.”

“Do you have a better plan, nerd?” Katelyn demanded. “No, let me rephrase that. Do you have any plan at all?”

Corey and Sammy looked at each other sheepishly and said nothing.

“Okay, then,” Katelyn said, rising from her chair. “Go get everyone together. We’ll meet in front of the hotel in an hour.”

She started to leave, then stopped. “Oh, and tell everyone to wear their uniforms,” she said. “We’re gonna be a sea of orange at that meeting. A mighty sea of orange.”

“‘A mighty sea of orange?’” Sammy said when she was gone. “Where does she get this stuff?”

Corey shook his head and smiled. “I don’t know,” he said. “But it sounds pretty good about now.”