It was a perfect evening for the Orioles’ season opener against the Angels. The warm rays of the sun hinted at all the long, lazy summer days to come.

Cody checked the lineup card taped to the dugout wall and was happy to see he was batting fifth, a real slugger’s spot. Willie, with his blinding speed, was leading off, followed by Robby, Jordy, and Connor, with Dante batting sixth.

“Our own Murderers’ Row!” Coach exulted, then explained that the nickname was given to the first six batters of the powerful New York Yankees teams of the late 1920s, a lineup that included the great Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig.

Cody was so excited about playing baseball again that he’d had trouble falling asleep the night before. After pacing restlessly around the house, he had oiled his glove twice, bent the brim of his Orioles cap over and over again until it had achieved the perfect angle, and tried on his new uniform three different times.

Checking himself in the mirror, he was shocked to see how small the uniform was. The jersey was stretched across his belly, revealing every bulge. Plus, he could barely button his pants at the waist, and the pants legs barely reached below his calves. When Coach had handed out uniforms at their last practice, he had taken Cody aside and said he was sorry there wasn’t a larger one.

Not as sorry as I am, Cody had said to himself, staring forlornly at his lumpy reflection. No one was going to mistake him for one of those lean, smiling kids who model youth baseball uniforms in the Dick’s Sporting Goods commercials. If anything, he looked like he was auditioning for the thirteen-and-under version of The Biggest Loser.

If he needed any more incentive to eat sensibly, which he had already been doing lately, the uniform was a good one. And the one-on-one basketball he played with Jessica in her driveway every evening could only help. She was as good at hoops as she was at softball—big surprise.

Cody just wanted the teasing about his weight to stop. If losing a few pounds would give him more of an edge on the field, well, that was an added bonus. In fact, he was so pumped for the Orioles’ opener that he had hardly thought about Dante all day in school. Looking around now, he spotted him loosening his arm with Yancy, the two of them laughing about something.

Dante laughing—maybe that was a good sign, Cody thought. Maybe Dante had finally accepted the fact that he wasn’t playing third base and he was now totally cool with left field. Maybe the big guy was through messing with him. Maybe he’d even turn out to be a great teammate, cheering and encouraging Cody no matter what position he played or how well or poorly he performed.

Yeah, right. But a guy could always hope.

The new Murderers’ Row didn’t take long to show off its power, as the Orioles took a 4–0 lead over the Angels in the first inning.

Willie led off with a walk and stole second before the Angels catcher even got the ball out of his mitt. Robbie flied out to center field—too shallow for Willie to advance. But Jordy drove him home with a double in the gap in left-center and Connor delivered an RBI double of his own down the right-field line to make it 2–0.

In the on-deck circle, Cody quietly gave a last-minute pep talk to his bat. As he walked to the plate, he heard snickering from the Angels dugout. And the pitcher, a kid he recognized from lunch period, was smirking and exchanging glances with the third baseman, the two making it clear they were seeing something really funny at the plate right now.

Cody dug into the batter’s box and took a couple of practice swings. The message behind the pitcher’s smile was clear: What’s this fat boy going to do with that fancy bat? He looks like he can barely make it to first base, never mind get a hit. Cody could feel his anger rise. He gripped the bat tightly and waved it in tiny circles, trying to look menacing, the way Prince Fielder did right before he blasted the cover off the ball.

How great would it be to knock that arrogant smile off the pitcher’s face? Cody thought. But this wasn’t a Hollywood movie. The kid wasn’t going to serve up a batting-practice fastball just to make Cody feel better. He’d have to work for every hit he got, just like always.

The first two pitches were low and in the dirt. Cody checked his swing on both. Now the kid threw a big, looping curveball that seemed to break from somewhere around the parking lot. It missed the plate by a foot.

Cody stepped out and took a deep breath. A 3 and 0 count. No way the pitcher wanted to walk him. Give the fat kid a free pass? Please. The rest of the Angels would never let him hear the end of it! No, this next pitch would be right down Main Street, the middle of the plate.

And when it arrived…

Careful, don’t be too eager, Cody reminded himself. Don’t lunge at it. Short, compact swing. Just hit the ball somewhere, like Dad always says. And hit it hard. Which is exactly what he did. The next pitch was a belt-high fastball, so tantalizing, Cody could feel his eyes bugging out of his head. But somehow he kept his hands back until the last second and uncoiled from his hips with a quick, level swing, his shoulders, arms, and hands following in a perfect symphony.

It was one of those swings, ball meeting bat on the sweet spot of the barrel, that feels effortless. Cody knew it was gone the moment he hit it. He paused to watch anyway as the ball soared over the left-field fence, and the Orioles’ dugout exploded with noise and chants of “CO-DY! CO-DY!”

Running to first with a big smile on his face, he thought: Maybe this wasn’t a Hollywood movie, with a slow-motion sequence of his home run swing and rousing music as he circled the bases. But it felt like the next best thing.

As he rounded third, Cody was struck by a sudden impulse. He waited until Coach high-fived him and turned his head. Then he reached out quickly and smacked the third baseman on his butt as he ran by.

“Fat power, bay-bee!” he said in a low voice.

The third baseman scowled and looked down at the ground. The pitcher wasn’t looking at him, either, Cody noticed, having developed a sudden fascination for the laces in the webbing of his glove.

The Orioles’ dugout had emptied now, and his teammates were gathered around home plate. As he jumped on the plate, he was engulfed in a knot of whooping players pounding him on the back and smacking him on the helmet.

But there was one conspicuous absence from this happy throng, Cody noticed. Dante remained in the on-deck circle, leaning on his bat and looking off into the distance, ignoring the impromptu celebration.

The rest of the game seemed to fly by as Robbie threw a three-hitter and the Orioles continued to pound all three Angels pitchers who took the mound. Even Dante got in on the action, driving in a run in the fifth inning with a sharp single up the middle. Nobody cheered harder for Dante than Cody—he practically flew out of the dugout to let the big guy know how happy he was about his RBI. Maybe that would get him on Dante’s good side.

The final score was Orioles 9, Angels 2. As the two teams lined up to slap hands, Cody was relieved not to hear any snickering. The Angels pitcher, in fact, actually mumbled, “Good hitting.” And the Angels coach made it a point to stop and shake his hand and say, “You got a real quick bat there, son.”

Looking up in the stands, Cody saw his mom waving and giving the thumbs-up sign.

“Great game, boys!” she shouted. Then she blew a kiss at Cody and said, “Meet you at the car.”

But Cody was in no hurry to leave. This was too much fun. He took his time changing out of his spikes and gathering up his bat and glove and packing his equipment bag. Then he walked up to the parking lot with Jordy and Connor, the three of them talking excitedly about their first win until the two boys ran off to catch their rides.

It was almost dark now. Up ahead, Cody saw the taillights of his mom’s car, parked off to one side. She’d be sitting inside with the dome light on, reading a book or doing a crossword puzzle, the way she always did when she had a few minutes to spare.

He took off his cap and broke into a trot. The cool evening breeze felt good as it rippled through his hair.

Suddenly he felt a push from behind and he found himself tumbling headfirst into the gravel. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadowy figure run off between two cars.

“I warned you, fat boy!” a voice hissed. “And you didn’t listen.”