It took more than twenty swings before Corey’s hands stopped shaking and he could think clearly again. He watched another ball from the pitching machine shoot in on his wrists and quickly flicked the bat, sending a rocket up the middle that felt as if it would tear a hole in the net and keep going, maybe all the way back to Baltimore.

It’s a wonder what a blowup with a crazy dad can do for your hitting, Corey thought. He was still working on pure adrenaline, having stormed out of the hotel and sprinted a half mile across the ball fields to the batting cages, his gear bag flapping against his hip.

There was no one else around. Dusk was beginning to set in, and a light ocean breeze had kicked up. To take his mind off his dad, he took to narrating his swings in the dramatic voice of a TV play-by-play announcer:

“Folks, that’s a solid double down the left-field line! They can’t get Maduro out tonight! They’ve tried everything: high heat, breaking balls, changeups. The kid is just wearing out every pitcher they throw out there!”

When you’re hitting well, he thought, a batting cage was about the best place in the whole world. You could lose yourself in the rhythm of the place, block out everything except the ball shooting from the long clear tube, the bat swinging in a smooth arc to meet it, and the familiar PING! of metal meeting horsehide.

If you took enough swings, you’d end up with sore hands, aching shoulders, and legs that felt rubbery from constantly striding into the pitch. But the pain was always worth it. There was no feeling more satisfying than meeting the ball just right and driving it.

It only went as far as the net, sure, but in your mind you were sending it to the farthest reaches of a packed stadium, and the poor outfielder chasing it had no chance of catching up to it, none at all.

“Three-and-two count now, two outs, bottom of the sixth…” Corey intoned. “We’ve got a tie ball game and it’s all riding on Maduro’s shoulders…here comes the pitch…and there’s a drive to deep center field! The ballpark’s not going to hold this one, folks! And it’s…GONE!

“Unbelievable! Corey Maduro has done it again! A walk-off homer! You talk about clutch! How about this young phenom with the Dulaney Orioles!”

Now he cupped his hands around his mouth and added his own crowd roar: “AAARRRGGGGHHH!”

He heard the sound of clapping—only this was real clapping!

Then a voice cried out, “Yay, Corey!”

He spun around to see Katelyn sitting on the bench with her arms and legs crossed, looking on with an amused grin.

Corey’s face flamed as he scowled and bent down to pick up some balls.

“Another hitting contest, Katelyn?” Corey said. “Is that what you’re here for? You think you’ll beat me this time? No thanks. Not in the mood. You’re the winner, if that’s what you want.”

“No, that’s not it,” she said. She spread her arms wide. “Look, didn’t even bring my bat.”

Corey regarded her suspiciously. But he was in no frame of mind to play Twenty Questions, either. Thinking of that old game brought on a stab of pain. Twenty Questions had been his mom’s favorite way to pass the time on family car trips when he was younger.

He turned back to the pitching machine and took a few more swings. But it was hard to concentrate with Katelyn sitting there silently behind him. He could feel her eyes boring into him, and it made him uncomfortable.

Actually, it was more than uncomfortable. It was kind of creepy.

“Don’t you want to know why I’m here?” she asked finally.

Corey sighed and threw his bat down. He walked over to the water fountain and took a long drink.

“If it’s to give me any crap about my dad, I don’t want to hear it,” he said. He furrowed his brow. “How did you even know I was here?”

“I saw you run out of the hotel,” Katelyn said. “And you looked pretty upset. If I was upset, this is where I’d go, too. And it worked for Danny.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t look too upset to me,” Corey barked. “So why are you here?”

That seemed to startle her.

“I…I just wanted you to know you’re not the only kid with a parent who goes crazy at ball games,” she said.

“Maybe,” Corey said, plopping dejectedly on the other bench. “But I’m the only kid here with that problem.”

“No, you’re not,” she said quietly. “Why do you think my dad never comes to our games?”

Corey looked up in time to see Katelyn frown. At that moment, he realized that he hadn’t seen Mr. Morris even once this whole season. It was always Katelyn’s mom sitting in the stands at their games, chatting with the other parents and cheering for her daughter and the team.

The only time Corey ever saw Mr. Morris was when he occasionally picked up Katelyn after a practice in the family’s big, white minivan. And then he always seemed grumpy and in a hurry to get going.

“Okay, tell me about your dad,” Corey said, his tone softer now.

“Long story,” she said. “You probably don’t want to hear it. Not after all the crap I gave you about your dad.”

Corey shrugged. “I’ve got plenty of time. Trust me, I’m not going back to that hotel until I absolutely have to.”

Katelyn took a deep breath and looked down at her hands. “My dad was just…insane at my games,” she said. “Everything bothered him. He’d yell at our coach if I wasn’t batting cleanup. If the coach told me to hold the bat a certain way, my dad would yell, ‘Katelyn, what are you doing? You’re holding the bat too high!’ As soon as I got on base, he’d start yelling for me to steal, even if the coach hadn’t given me the steal sign. When I bunted, he’d yell at the coach, ‘C’mon, let her swing away.’”

She shuddered at the memory.

“He had a voice like a loudspeaker, too. It was so embarrassing. I wanted to die. Thank God for my mom. She finally told him he couldn’t come to my games anymore. And I told him if he ever did, I’d quit baseball. He could see I was serious.”

“And he listened to you?” Corey asked.

Katelyn nodded. “Don’t get me wrong—I love my dad. But it’s his loss—that’s the way I look at it. He doesn’t get to see his daughter play a game she loves. A game she’s pretty good at, too.

“Oh, my dad says he’s changed,” she continued. “He kept begging us to let him come watch me play this season. He wanted to come to this tournament. But my mom and I don’t trust him yet. So now when we have a game, he stays home and watches my little brother. Which is its own form of torture, believe me. Because my little brother is a royal pain in the butt.”

They both chuckled. Then Katelyn grew serious again.

“I guess that’s why I gave you so much crap about your dad,” Katelyn said. “’Cause he sounded so much like mine.”

Corey nodded. “If my mom was alive, she’d tell my dad to stop coming to my games, too,” he said. “But she died last year. And he won’t listen to me. Now I’m thinking of quitting.”

“No!” Katelyn said. The ferocity in her voice startled him. “I mean, you can’t quit!” she went on. “You’re too good. That catch you made today? That’s the best catch I’ve ever seen a kid make.”

Corey shook his head wearily. “Here we go, back to the sarcasm. You never stop, do you?”

“No, I’m serious,” Katelyn said. “You played that ball perfectly. I wouldn’t have been able to make that catch in a million years. And then to get up after a diving catch, spin around, and make a perfect throw…that was unbelievable.”

Corey jumped up and went over to the water fountain for another drink. This was all very confusing. He needed a moment to think.

“Can I ask you a question?” he said, sitting again. “Why are you suddenly saying all these nice things about me? Have aliens taken over your body? What happened to the old Katelyn who hated my guts?”

“I didn’t hate you,” she said softly. “I was just…jealous. Or envious. I can never get those two straight. I thought I deserved to play center field. And I was mad when Coach put you there and he stuck me in right field, where they put all the losers. I was mad at Coach, mad at you, mad at everyone on the team.

“But when you helped me at the water park…wow.” She shivered again at the memory. “Anyway, I felt terrible about how I had treated you. And when you made that great play…well, you saved the game for us. And I knew Coach had made the right decision to put you in center.”

“But what about you?” Corey said. “Talk about saving the game—you hit a freaking grand slam! And you called it beforehand, too! Remember all that ‘big dog’s gotta hunt’ stuff?”

Katelyn waved her hand dismissively. “I know I’m good.” She flashed him a smile. “My mom says I have an ego the size of the Washington Monument.”

This sounded more like the Katelyn he knew.

“But you…” she continued. “You’re better. Like I said, Coach made the right decision.”

Corey sat in stunned silence. It was almost dark now. The moon was coming up, and off in the distance they could see lights winking on in the hotel windows.

Katelyn was waiting for him to say something. But his mind was racing and he felt totally tongue-tied. This seemed to happen a lot lately, especially when he was around girls, particularly smart girls like Katelyn, who seemed to be able to look at you and know what you were thinking.

So Corey did what he often did when he found himself in this predicament.

He changed the subject.

“I just thought of something,” he said. “You still owe me an ice cream.”

Katelyn seemed puzzled at first. Then it dawned on her and she smiled. “For the hitting contest, right?” she said. “Chocolate marshmallow cone, wasn’t it?”

Corey nodded. “And not just chocolate marshmallow.”

Now Katelyn burst out laughing. “I know, I know…with sprinkles,” she said, standing. “Okay, let’s go. If you move your slow butt, we can get there before the place closes.”

Corey tossed his bat in his gear bag and smiled to himself. It hadn’t been the greatest day of his life. In many ways, it had been one of the strangest. And the problem with his dad wasn’t going away anytime soon.

But this minute at least, things weren’t terrible.

Not if there was ice cream in the immediate future.