The Orioles’ going-away party was held at Coach’s rambling farmhouse, which sat next to a small pond that shimmered in the afternoon sunlight. A large banner hung from the porch railing. Painted in orange and black letters, it said: GOOD LUCK, ORIOLES! HAVE A GREAT TOURNAMENT!

Mr. Noah dropped off Sammy and Corey at two o’clock. Mickey Labriogla, Coach’s son, greeted them at the door, chomping on the biggest hamburger either of them had ever seen.

“How do you even get that thing in your mouth?” Corey asked.

“It looks like a cannonball between two buns,” Sammy said.

“Made it myself,” Mickey said, grinning. “Mushed three burgers into one. Dad fired it up on the grill.”

“The kid’s a genius!” Sammy said. “Wish I had thought of that.”

Mickey was the Orioles catcher, a thickly built boy with a smile that seemed permanently on display. But as good-natured as Mickey was, the Orioles knew he was all business on a baseball diamond.

No one in the league was better at blocking pitches in the dirt and leaping for errant fastballs over the batter’s head. No catcher had a better arm and none blocked the plate as ferociously as Mickey did, either. Corey had seen countless base runners slide into Mickey’s shin guards trying to score, only to be stopped dead in their tracks. It was like sliding into a brick chimney with legs.

“Here’s today’s program, sports fans,” Mickey said, ushering them inside and wiping ketchup from his mouth with his sleeve. “Burgers and hot dogs are cooking out back. A couple of the guys are shooting baskets. And we’ll get a Wiffle ball game going as soon as everyone gets here.

“If I were you,” he continued, patting his ample belly, “I’d go for the food first. But that’s just me.”

“You? Go for the food?” Sammy said, nudging Corey. “That’s hard to believe.”

Mickey glared at him in mock outrage.

“Now look what you did, Sammy!” Corey said. “You hurt his feelings!”

“Hey, it’s not like I’ve been piggin’ out!” Mickey said. “Ask my dad. This is only my first burger!”

“Or third,” Sammy said. “Depending on how you do the math.”

“I’m counting it as one,” Mickey said, the grin returning. “My house, my rules.”

They followed Mickey out into the backyard, where Coach presided over a hot grill, plumes of smoke circling his head. He wore an orange Orioles T-shirt, black sweatpants, and a big, floppy chef’s hat. He waved to them with a big spatula in one hand.

“Don’t ask me to make what he’s eating,” Coach growled, pointing the spatula at Mickey, who popped the last of his burger in his mouth. “The boy could wipe out the entire ground-beef aisle at Sam’s Club.”

“A small price to pay for the privilege of coaching the best catcher in the league!” Mickey said. He flexed his biceps and danced about wildly, which cracked up everyone, even Coach.

Soon the rest of the team arrived and the yard was a sea of noise as the Orioles talked excitedly about the upcoming tournament and their week in North Carolina.

After lunch, most of them played two-on-two basketball, switching teams every six points so everyone got in. Corey was having such a good time he almost forgot he was the only Oriole not looking forward to the tournament.

But when they stopped playing and plopped down in the cool grass to rest, a strange feeling came over him.

There was something different about this cookout, he thought, something that made it even more fun than the others they’d had. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on…

Then it hit him: Katelyn wasn’t there.

Yes, that was it. No one had called him nerd, or pointed out his lack of table manners, or complained about how much ketchup he’d slathered on his burger. And when they had played hoops, no one had elbowed him in the ribs as he went up for a rebound, or hooted when he missed a jump shot.

He glanced around the Labrioglas’ backyard again, thinking he might have missed Katelyn with all the Orioles running around. But no, there was no sign of her.

“Where’s Wonder Girl?” he asked Sammy.

“She’s not here?” Sammy said, scanning the crowd. “Hmm, you’re right. Now, why is that?” He scrambled to his feet. “As the great Harry Potter said, ‘We must investigate! Follow me, Ron Weasley!’”

They found Coach still hard at work over the grill. Beads of perspiration dotted his red face as he fired up the last half-dozen burgers for anyone still hungry.

“Coach,” Sammy said casually, “where’s our star right fielder?”

“Couldn’t make it,” Coach said, fanning smoke from his eyes. “Apparently she’s not feeling well.”

Corey and Sammy looked at each other, then quickly lowered their eyes, trying not to smile.

“Gee, that’s too bad,” Sammy said at last.

Coach nodded gravely. “Her mom says Katelyn’s pretty sick,” he added. “Could be the flu. She might miss the whole tournament, poor kid.”

“Oh,” Corey said, hoping he sounded sincere. “That would be…terrible.”

Actually, he thought, it would be terrible. Katelyn was definitely one of the Orioles’ best players, and one of their fastest base runners, too. Only Hunter Carlson, the skinny third baseman, had more steals, a fact that seemed to annoy Katelyn no end. Maybe that was why she seemed to resent Hunter almost as much as she resented Corey.

Still, the thought of her staying home with a runny nose, hacking cough, and 102-degree fever did not exactly bring tears to Corey’s eyes.

Coach shrugged. “Playing without her would be tough,” he said. “But we’d just have to do the best we can. There’s still a lot of talent on this team, boys. You know how NFL teams like the Ravens are always talking about ‘next man up’? How when a player goes down with an injury, someone else has to step up and carry the load? That’s how it has to be with the Orioles this week if Katelyn can’t make it.”

Corey and Sammy nodded, trying to keep a straight face. But as soon as they were out of Coach’s sight, they grinned at each other and bumped fists. From a personal point of view, Corey thought “next man up” without Katelyn was sounding pretty good.

The Wiffle ball game was the highlight of the afternoon. They chose teams and played in a big field near the pond. Corey, Sammy, Hunter, and Gabe Vasquez, the Orioles’ best pitcher, called themselves the Supreme Sluggers. Mickey, Justin, left fielder Spencer Dalton, first baseman Ethan Novitsky, and outfielder/pitcher Danny Connolly, the smallest kid on the Orioles, were the O’s Elites.

With the score tied at 9–9, two outs, and the bases loaded in the sixth inning, Hunter crossed up the Elites by laying down a beautiful bunt that died in the grass in front of the pitcher’s mound.

As Mickey stumbled after the ball and threw too late to first base, Sammy crossed home plate with the winning run, his hands raised in triumph. As the Sluggers whooped and traded high fives, the Elites howled in protest.

“Who bunts in Wiffle ball?” Hunter demanded. “Are you even allowed to do that?”

“Smart, aggressive teams bunt,” Sammy said. “Teams that aren’t afraid to push the envelope.”

Spencer snorted. “Only wusses bunt in Wiffle ball.”

“Yeah,” Danny said. “And you have the nerve to call yourselves the Supreme Sluggers?”

“The Sluggers are not bound by a single way to win, my tiny friend,” Gabe said. “If we have to crush the ball, we crush the ball. But if we have to drop a bunt on your sleepy butts, we’ll do that, too.”

“Wait, did you just call Danny your tiny friend?” Spencer asked with a grin.

“Well, I don’t know whether you’ve noticed,” Gabe said, “but he’s not exactly Shaquille O’Neal. He’s about the size of one of Shaq’s sneakers.”

By now, players on both teams were laughing. It reminded Corey of the backyard games of tennis-ball Home Run Derby he’d played with the neighborhood kids when he was younger. Arguing about the ground rules and trash-talking with the other team was as much fun as actually playing.

A moment later, Coach broke up the discussion by calling them together.

“Boys, we leave for Sea Isle promptly at nine A.M. tomorrow,” he said. “You all know who you’re carpooling with. The tournament begins the next day. We’re playing five games in seven days against some top-flight teams, so it’ll give us a chance to see just how good we are.

“We want to play our best baseball down there,” Coach continued. “In fact, we want to win the championship. I think we’re that good. But win or lose, the main thing is to have fun. We want to come away from this tournament with lots of great memories.”

At that moment, Corey wished he had a recording device so he could play Coach’s words back for his dad. You mean baseball could be fun? Win or lose? Corey was pretty sure Joe Maduro did not exactly share that philosophy.

No, most of the time baseball seemed more like war than a game to his dad. And Corey couldn’t imagine that would change just because they were playing in a spectacular venue.

But a few minutes later, as he climbed into Mr. Noah’s car for the ride home, Corey tried to think positively, the way his mom had taught him.

If his bat came around even a little, if Katelyn wasn’t around to annoy him, if his dad would only calm down and not act like such a wild man during games, maybe the tournament wouldn’t be so bad.

But Corey knew those were three big ifs. And right now he was feeling squeezed by all three.

He sighed and stared out the window at the white, puffy clouds gliding across the bright blue sky. Mom, he thought, I’m trying. I really am.