Corey braced for the usual adventure on the ride home. It began almost immediately. Joe Maduro peered uncertainly out the windshield at the gathering dusk and shifted the big SUV into drive. He stomped on the gas and they lurched out of the parking lot, cutting off a minivan.

The other driver slammed on the brakes and honked the horn.

“Headlights!” Corey yelled.

“Right,” his dad said, clicking them on. “Sorry.”

Part of the problem, Corey realized, was that his dad’s vision had gone downhill in recent years. But the other problem was that he was simply a bad driver. A really, really bad driver. The world’s worst, according to Uncle Bobby, Joe Maduro’s brother.

“Blind and totally clueless behind the wheel!” Uncle Bobby would cackle at family gatherings as Corey’s dad shrugged sheepishly. “What a combination! And they actually let him have a license!”

Corey tugged his seat belt tighter. He would have felt better in a full body harness, fire-retardant suit, and crash helmet, just like the NASCAR drivers had.

Except how would that look, a twelve-year-old getting into all that gear just to ride home from practice with his dad?

“You guys looked absolutely lifeless out there,” Joe Maduro began as they bounced out to the main highway.

Corey looked out the window and sighed. “Dad,” he said, “it’s only practice.”

Immediately he wished he could take it back.

“Only practice?” his dad said.

Corey closed his eyes. Here it comes, he thought. He’ll start with Allen Iverson.…

“Only practice,” his dad repeated. “Who are you, Allen Iverson?”

This, Corey knew, was a reference to the former NBA superstar who had famously delivered a rant ridiculing the importance of practice when he played for the Philadelphia 76ers years ago.

Corey’s dad had found it on YouTube and made him watch it again and again. Each time, Joe Maduro had snorted with disgust when it was over and said, “Can you believe that guy? What, he’s so good he doesn’t have to work at it?”

“What do I always tell you about practice?” Corey’s dad continued now. “Huh? What do I always say?”

“Here come the Six P’s,” Corey whispered to himself. The traffic was heavy now. His eyes widened with alarm as the SUV drifted to the shoulder of the road.

“The Six P’s, right?” his dad said. “Proper Practice Prevents Piss-Poor Performance. How many times have we gone over that?”

Only about a hundred, Corey thought. Not that anyone’s counting.

Suddenly a shower of gravel sprayed the side of their car. Corey’s dad swore softly. He tugged the steering wheel hard to the left and they careened back onto the highway.

“Uh, Dad?” Corey said, heart beating faster now. “Can we keep it on the road?”

“Why don’t you let me drive, big guy,” his dad said. “You worry about your team, okay? The way you Orioles look, it’s like you don’t even care!”

Why should I worry about the team? Corey thought. You worry about it enough for both of us.

He looked out the window again and watched as the familiar landscape whizzed by: the Welkin Farms tree nursery, the Ed Ross Chevrolet dealership, Rosie’s Diner, with its huge neon sign proclaiming HOME OF THE WORLD’S BEST FRIES!

Corey loved his dad, loved him with all his heart. But lately it seemed as if all Joe Maduro wanted to talk about was the Orioles. He was supercritical of everything Corey did on the baseball field, too, harping on every little mistake. Now his dad was even showing up to watch the team practice.

None of the other dads seemed so wrapped up in the Orioles, not even Mr. Noah, who was proud of the fact that he’d never missed one of Sammy’s games, dating back to T-ball.

Corey’s dad had always been his biggest fan, and Corey appreciated that. But these days Joe Maduro was always questioning the umpires whenever a call went against the Orioles. Not only that, he also heckled the other teams and got into arguments with the other players’ parents.

It was embarrassing. And it was getting worse and worse. Everyone on the Orioles was beginning to notice.

“The team’s going to be fine, Dad,” Corey said finally. “Coach said we looked sharp during infield and outfield. And everyone was killing it in batting practice.”

“Good,” his dad said, smiling for the first time since he’d arrived at practice.

Corey left out the details about Katelyn robbing him of a fly ball and Coach barking at the two of them, figuring this would only get his dad riled up again and lead to another rant about practice habits. Which wouldn’t be good, seeing as how they were already drifting into another lane.

It was Sammy who had first dubbed these drives “Death Rides.” When Corey’s mom was alive, she would sit up front with his dad, and Corey and Sammy would sit in the back and giggle whenever his mother gasped, grabbed the dashboard, and cried, “Joe! Slow down! It’s a red light!”

But that was years ago. Now that his mom was gone and he was big enough to sit up front, watching his dad weave all over the road wasn’t funny anymore.

At times—like now—it could be downright terrifying.

“Are you fired up about the tournament?” his dad asked. “You guys are playing some pretty good teams. That team from Virginia? The Norfolk Red Sox? They’re supposed to have great pitching.”

Corey groaned inwardly. No! Could it be? Was his dad actually scouting the other teams in the tournament?

This, Corey thought, was the whole problem with the Internet. Anyone could get information about anything at any time. For an instant, he fantasized about taking his dad’s laptop when he wasn’t home and tossing it in the nearest Dumpster. Or climbing onto the roof of their house and sailing it Frisbee-style until it crashed on the sidewalk below.

“I figure it’s about a six-hour ride to Sea Isle,” his dad said, draping a beefy hand over the steering wheel. “Coach talked about carpooling. Tell him I volunteer to drive. See if Sammy and his dad want to come with us. It’ll be fun. We’ll all have plenty of time to talk about the team.”

Corey looked out the window again. He tried to imagine six hours trapped in a car while his dad droned on and on about the tournament, and about the Orioles and how crappy they practiced, and how they were going to get their butts beaten so badly. No, there weren’t enough pit stops for burgers and ice cream cones to make that bearable.

A flash of light caused him to swing his eyes back to the road. A big eighteen-wheeler was emerging from the service road on their right. But his dad wasn’t slowing down. Corey gasped and grabbed the dashboard.

“Dad!” he shouted. “That truck is—”

His dad stomped on the brakes and veered into the far left lane. Somewhere behind them, tires squealed.

Corey closed his eyes. Why am I stressing about the tournament? he thought. We’ll probably never make it there alive.