Cody arrived forty-five minutes early for practice. He asked his mom to drop him off at empty Eddie Murray Field so he could jog around the bases and do some stretching to loosen up. Which was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth.

As soon as she left, he began pacing the parking lot. Fifteen minutes later, a black Ford pickup with oversized tires and Yosemite Sam BACK OFF! mud flaps pulled in.

The driver’s-side door swung open, and out jumped Coach Hammond. He walked back to the bed of the truck and pulled out a canvas bag filled with balls, bats, helmets, and catcher’s gear.

Cody took a deep breath and waved.

“Hey there!” Coach said, obviously pleased to see him. “You’re here early. Or maybe I’m late. Another exhausting day of crime fighting in America. So many bad guys to lock up, so little time.”

Cody had heard that Coach was a Baltimore police officer. He wondered if his dad and Coach had met yet, maybe at a crime scene that they both happened to be working. Not that Cody’s dad would ever say much about it. He rarely talked about his work—probably so as not to upset his wife. Lots of times, it didn’t make for great dinnertime conversation. Honey, pass the roast beef and let me tell you about this guy we found with multiple gunshot wounds today.…

“Coach,” Cody said, “I was wondering if—”

“You’re playing third base?” Coach said, tossing the equipment bag over his shoulder. “You sure are, son. That was some display of fielding you put on the other day.”

Cody nodded and looked down.

Coach chuckled. “Well, that’s a first,” he said. “Usually when I say that to a kid, he’s ready to do cartwheels.”

“Coach, I can play other positions too,” Cody said. “In fact, outfield might be—”

“Nope, you’re our third baseman,” Coach cut him off, clapping a beefy hand on Cody’s shoulder. “You have a strong, accurate arm. And you’re a great hitter too. For a big kid, you move real well out there.”

Cody nodded again and forced a smile. I might not be moving too well when a certain tall, cranky teammate hears about this, he thought.

He helped Coach unload the catcher’s gear and water bottles from the truck as the rest of the Orioles began to trickle in.

“Cody!” said a kid, holding up a ball. “Warm up with me?”

It was the guy who had done most of the catching the other day, Joey. Soon the two of them were joined by the little second baseman, who introduced himself as Willie. Cody kept looking around for Dante, but the big guy was a no-show so far. Maybe he was blowing off practice, Cody thought. Maybe Dante had even quit the team, ticked at Coach for getting on him about the cursing.

Fifteen minutes later, they heard the squealing of tires and saw a battered green Jeep careen into the parking lot with the radio blaring. A scowling older boy was behind the wheel, smoking a cigarette; another boy the same age occupied the passenger seat. The rear door was flung open and a familiar figure jumped out.

“Fellas, fellas, fellas!” he cried. “What’s up with the Orioles on this fine afternoon?”

Dante Rizzo was in the house. Those other two guys must be the Rottweiler Twins, Cody thought.

As the rest of the Orioles stared and Coach looked at his watch and shook his head, Dante swaggered onto the field and began stretching.

A boy they called Gabe slapped hands with him and said, “What’s going on, D?” But Cody noticed most of the other boys seemed to edge away from Dante. Cody and Joey moved away too. But not before Dante spotted Cody and snickered.

A few minutes later, Coach called the Orioles together.

“Boys, I’m excited about this team,” he began. “We have some real talent and a great shot to do well this season if we play sound, fundamental baseball. With focus and the right teamwork, we have a chance to be really special. Now, let’s go to work.”

For the better part of an hour, they had fielding drills: hitting the cutoff man, reviewing where to position themselves for bunts, throwing down to second base on a steal attempt with runners on first and third, etc. Cody was relieved to see that Coach shuttled Dante between third base and left field for the drills. And the big guy didn’t seem too upset about the arrangement. At least he wasn’t glaring at Cody and making throat-slashing gestures.

But that’ll probably change, once he discovers I’m playing third, Cody thought. At which point my life will be over.

Cody could also see that Coach was right about the Orioles’ chances of having a great season. Connor and Jordy were both terrific all-round players. Willie Pitts, the slender second baseman, was by far the fastest kid he had ever seen—Cody couldn’t imagine anyone being able to throw him out on the base paths. Joey Zinno was an excellent catcher, with a cannon for an arm.

Dante was a far better left fielder than he was a third baseman, and Yancy Arroyo in center field was so smooth he seemed to glide effortlessly to fly balls. Even Gabe Molina in right field looked like a solid player who was not going to embarrass the Orioles.

The pitching seemed outstanding too—at least what Cody saw of right-hander Robbie Hammond, the coach’s son, throwing on the sidelines. Robbie was the Orioles’ number one pitcher, and Mike Cutko, the short lefty throwing beside him, was their number two.

The only player Cody couldn’t figure out was a skinny, gawky-looking kid who took turns alternating with Gabe in right field. The boy never seemed to stop talking, even when he was chasing fly balls and line drives. He talked to anyone who would listen. And when they stopped listening, he kept yammering anyway.

“C’mon, you’re better than that!” the kid yelled at himself after dropping an easy fly ball. When he misjudged a line drive a few minutes later, he cried out, “Get your head in the game, Marty!”

When the team finally took a water break, Cody sidled up to Connor and asked, “What’s with the chatty guy in right field?”

Connor grinned and waved over Jordy and Willie.

“Jordy,” he said, “give us the scouting report on Marty.”

Jordy pretended to pull a notebook from his back pocket and thumb through several pages. “Ah, here it is,” he said. “Loopus, Marty. Can’t hit. Can’t catch. Can’t throw.”

“Wait, there’s been an addition,” Willie added, acting like he was reading from his own notes. “Says here the boy’s slower than your grandma on the bases too.”

The three of them laughed. Cody cringed a little, feeling a sting of embarrassment on Marty’s behalf. Cody knew how it felt to have kids judging you all the time.

But then Connor held up his hand. “Marty’s actually great to have on our team, ’cause he’s always trying to make us laugh,” he said. “He’s probably the smartest kid in the whole school too. I heard he’s never gotten anything but straight A’s on his report card—since he was in kindergarten.”

“Doesn’t help much when we’re down in the last inning and need a big hit,” Willie said with a grin. “But if we ever go up against the other team in positive and negative integers, Marty’s the man!”

Now all of them laughed together as Coach waved them back on the field for batting practice.

For the next forty-five minutes, the Orioles put on a show. It was one of those days when everyone was driving the ball. The whole team seemed totally focused—scary focused, actually—at the plate. Even Dante was spraying balls to all parts of the field, although he had a looping, totally unorthodox swing, like a guy hacking his way out of a jungle two-handed with a machete.

Connor, Jordy, and Cody, hitting back-to-back-to-back, were outstanding. Each ripped the ball hard on every swing, and each sent two balls soaring over the outfield fence. As Cody’s final blast cleared the left-field fence and came to rest near the concession stand, the Orioles who were shagging balls in the outfield began bowing and chanting: “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”

“Six bombs by three different guys!” Willie shouted. “Coach, you might as well tell the league to give us the trophy right now!”

On the mound, Coach nodded and grinned. He took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“Something’s going on!” he agreed. “Apparently everyone took their vitamins today!”

Well, almost everyone.

The only batter who struggled was Marty, who seemed to bounce the ball weakly back to the mound every time—when he made contact at all.

After whiffing on his final three swings, Marty threw his bat down in disgust. “Hitting is overrated,” he said, pulling off his batting gloves.

Leaning against the backstop, Connor nudged Cody and silently mouthed: “Watch this.”

“What about pitching and fielding?” Connor asked Marty.

“Totally overrated,” Marty said, rising to the bait. “Baserunning too. Who cares how fast you are? It’s baseball, not a track meet.”

Connor let that statement hang in the air for a moment.

Finally he said, “So if hitting’s not important, and pitching’s not important, and neither is fielding and baserunning, how do you win baseball games?”

Marty shot him a knowing look. Then he placed a bony finger to his temple. “You win them up here, guys,” he said. “Brain power. Superior IQ. Or as I like to call it, the Loopus Factor.”

At this, all the Orioles within earshot cracked up. Marty grinned and said, “My job here is done,” and sauntered away. Cody realized it was the first time he had laughed that hard in weeks. He was amazed at how good it felt.

Why can’t the good feelings ever last? he wondered as Coach signaled practice to a close. Then Cody remembered the two girls in art class this morning. When he sat down across from them, they had looked at each other and puffed out their cheeks like, Check out the chunkster.

Oh, yeah, he said to himself. That’s why.