Corey and Sammy leaned against the dugout railing and stared in wonder at the cars streaming into the parking lot. Thirty minutes before the Orioles’ game with the Arlen Indians, an overflow crowd was already in place. All three grandstands around the Yankee Stadium replica field were packed with cheering, banner-waving Indians fans, and the two sets of auxiliary bleachers were filling up fast.

“What do they think this is, a One Direction concert?” Sammy said.

Corey shook his head. “I know the Indians are the hotshot local team,” he said, “but did each player bring, like, thirty-five family members?”

“Maybe there’s not a whole lot to do in Arlen,” Sammy said. “Or maybe they want to experience the thrill of seeing youth baseball at its best, courtesy of the mighty Orioles from the great state of Maryland.”

“Yeah,” Corey said, “that’s probably it. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Suddenly each boy felt a whack on his shoulder, and Katelyn materialized behind them.

“Truth is, the crowd’s here to see me, nerds,” she said, nodding with conviction. “And I plan to put on a show for them. I’m thinking three-for-four at the plate, a couple of bombs, two or three stolen bases—you know, the usual. Oh, plus another SportsCenter-worthy diving catch in right field.”

Cackling, she picked up her glove, punched the pocket a few times, and ran out with Danny to loosen her arm.

“Still humble, still selfless, still all about the team,” Sammy said. He pretended to dab an imaginary tear in each eye with his sleeve. “I get all choked up when I think how lucky I am to be her teammate.”

Corey laughed. But the truth was, he was thrilled to see Katelyn back to being her old self, even if that meant dealing with an ego the size of the Chesapeake Bay.

At breakfast in the hotel that morning, the team had sat together to talk about the upcoming game, which felt like a big one despite the fact that they were out of the championship round now. Katelyn hadn’t said a word about the incident atop the Drop of Doom, even though a few of the Orioles had kidded her about it and wondered aloud about her remarkable recovery.

Two glasses of orange juice, two glasses of milk, and three pancakes—wasn’t that an incredible appetite for someone who had suffered from a terrible “stomachache” just fifteen hours earlier?

“Shut it, nerds,” Katelyn had growled finally, ending that line of conversation.

Once or twice, Corey had looked up from his own breakfast to see her looking at him. Each time, she had quickly looked away with what seemed to be the hint of a smile. Well, he couldn’t be sure it was a smile. But at least she hadn’t given him her usual glare, like he was a fly walking across her maple syrup.

Suddenly there was a commotion behind them as Mickey clambered down the dugout steps carrying his catcher’s gear, with Gabe trailing behind.

“Are we going to warm up or not?” the pitcher barked.

“Patience, my grumpy friend,” Mickey said, dusting off part of the bench.

This was Mickey’s usual ritual, and the Orioles were familiar with it. Carefully, he laid out his gear. When it was arranged just so, he began pulling on one piece after another with all the solemnity of a medieval knight preparing for battle.

“I put on my equipment from the bottom up,” he explained to no one in particular. “Start with the shin guards, okay? There we go. Then we move to the chest protector, which is adjusted like so.”

He tugged hard on one strap and pretended to gasp, as if all the air had been sucked out of him.

“Unbelievable,” Gabe said. “The kid does play-by-play of himself putting on his gear.”

“The protective cup is already in place, of course,” Mickey continued. “Anyone want to check? Can’t be taking any chances down there, if you know what I mean.”

“You need a cup for your brain,” Gabe said. “Sounds like that’s been hit a few times, too.”

Mickey ignored him and reached for his face mask.

“Finally,” he intoned dramatically, “the intrepid catcher for the Orioles puts on the single most important piece of equipment he has—at least if you’re a drop-dead handsome hunk like Michael James Labriogla.”

Gabe groaned. “That’s it, I’m officially going to hurl. Can we warm up now, Mr. Hunk?”

“I suppose,” Mickey said, adjusting his face mask and picking up his mitt. “But don’t make me sweat too much. Don’t want to mess up this killer hair.”

When the Orioles took the field, Corey scanned the stands for his dad. He finally spotted him in the bleachers behind first base, surrounded by a loud contingent of Indians fans wearing eagle-feather headdresses and bright red face paint, and waving red pom-poms.

Corey groaned. Oh, this isn’t good, he thought. This isn’t good at all.

It wasn’t good because Joe Maduro, Corey knew, was of the opinion that anyone who painted his or her face and showed up in a silly outfit to watch a ball game probably had a screw loose and should be beaten with sticks. And he wasn’t shy about expressing this opinion to others.

How many times had his dad been watching a Baltimore Ravens football game on TV, only to start ranting and raving when the cameras showed a bunch of fat guys in the stands wearing capes and tights as well as beads, feathers, and plastic bird beaks?

As for the pom-poms the Indians fans were waving, Corey knew that if one of them accidentally grazed his dad, he’d react as if he’d just been Tasered.

No, his dad sitting next to a bunch of rabid fans in Sitting Bull warbonnets was another powder keg waiting to blow. Not that Corey could do anything about it now except pray that his dad would keep his vow not to cause a scene.

Quickly it became apparent that this wasn’t Gabe’s day. He walked four, gave up four hits, and the Orioles trailed 4–0 after three innings.

In the dugout between innings, he was disconsolate. “I suck!” he announced loudly. “I don’t know why Coach gives me the ball. I can’t get it over the plate. I can’t get anyone out. I couldn’t get my own mother out, the way I was pitching.”

“Well, at least you’re not overreacting,” Corey said.

“Yeah, way to be Mr. Positive,” Sammy said. “It’s really helping things.”

Justin led off with a walk for the Orioles in the top of the fifth. As he trotted down to first base, Katelyn popped up from her seat on the bench and retrieved her bat. She strode to the end of the dugout and began taking practice swings, talking to herself the whole time.

“What are you doing?” Mickey said. “You’re not up.”

“Just getting ready, dorkface,” she said without interrupting her swings. “This is our inning. I can feel it. And guess who’s going to lead the lumber parade?”

The rest of the Orioles looked at one another and snickered.

“‘Lead the lumber parade?’” Sammy whispered.

“I don’t know,” Corey said, “but she’s not kidding. See the look on her face?”

Katelyn had stopped swinging and was studying the pitcher intently now as she chomped furiously on a wad of bubble gum.

Danny followed with a hard single to right, sending Justin to third. And when Hunter followed with a walk to load the bases, Katelyn was up.

Before sauntering to the plate, she peered into the dugout from the on-deck circle and said, “This one’s going bye-bye, boys.”

By now, none of the Orioles were laughing. As if on cue, they jumped off the bench and climbed to the top step, watching with growing excitement as Katelyn dug in against the Indians pitcher.

“You don’t think she’s actually going to hit a—” Gabe began.

“Shush,” Mickey said. “This could be good.”

It was.

The Indians pitcher, a skinny kid with a high leg kick and herky-jerky delivery, went into his windup and delivered a big, looping curveball that seemed to break from somewhere out by third base. Katelyn stood motionless at the plate until the last possible second.

Just as the ball dove in on her wrists, she flicked the bat and hit a long, soaring drive that landed twenty feet beyond the left-field wall.

Grand slam.

As the Orioles dugout erupted in cheers, Corey and Sammy stared at each other in astonishment. Then the whole team ran out to mob Katelyn as she crossed the plate.

It took a while for her to get there.

As Coach would say later, Katelyn’s home-run trot could be measured with an hourglass. She jogged slowly around the bases with a big smile, making it a point to hit each bag precisely on the corner with her right foot. As she rounded third, she tossed her helmet in the air big-league-style before stomping on the plate and disappearing in the celebrating throng of Orioles.

Orioles 4, Indians 4.

“New ball game!” Coach shouted above the din.

Back in the dugout, Katelyn flopped at the end of the bench and accepted a fist bump from Gabe, whose depression had instantly disappeared.

“I can’t believe you called that shot!” he said.

She shrugged and pulled off her batting gloves. “That’s why I should have been in the Home Run Derby, nerds. It’s like I always say: the big dog’s gotta hunt.”

Standing in the on-deck circle, Sammy looked at Corey and grinned. “Now that,” he said, “was pure poetry.”